PC-NRI 


B    3    57=1    bE7 


'     A 


mfi    V- 
>  m 

:    :* 


<f 


« 

>-V 


H 


. 


BIOGRAPHY 


OP 


THE    LATE 


MARGARET    MILLER   DAVIDSON, 


BIOGRAPHY 


AND 


POETICAL    REMAINS 


OF  THE  LATE 


MARGARET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 


BY  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Thou  wert  unfit  to  dwell  with  clay, 
For  sin  too  pure,  for  earth  too  bright ! 

And  death,  who  call'd  thee  hence  away, 
Placed  on  his  brow  a  gem  of  light ! 

MARGARET  TO  HER  SISTER. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

LEA    AND    BLANC  II  A  R  D. 

1841. 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  forty-one,  by  WASHINGTON  IRVING,  in  the  Clerk's  Office 
of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


C,  SHEKJIAN  &  Co.  PUJKTSRS. 

'*  "'1 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHY,              ......  9 

REMAINS,           -            -            -            .            -           •  153 

A  Tale,  written  at  the  age  of  fifteen,                                    -  155 

POETICAL  REMAINS,      -            -            -            .    '      '-  185 

To  my  Mother,        ......  185 

Pride  and  Modesty,        -            -            -            .            -  186 

Versification  of  the  Twenty-third  Psalm,    -  189 

To  Brother  L ,      /.  .   "                                 •/  189 

For  Mamma,            -            -            -            .            -            -  190 

To  Mamma,       -            -            -            -                        *  190 

To  a  Flower,             -            -            ."         .           :           -  191 

Stanzas,              -            -            -            ,  '         .            .  192 

Essay  on  Nature,     -            -            -            .,*.*".  193 

Home,   -            -            -            .                      '  * ":         „'       .  194 

The  Majesty  of  God,                                                               .  194 

From  the  Forty-second  Psalm,  -  195 

Hymn  of  the  Fire- Worshippers,      -            -            -            -  195 

Enigma,  197 

To  a  Little  Cousin  at  Christmas,     -            -    '    '    -            .  197 

On  reading  Childe  Harold,        ....  193 

Invocation,  -  -  -  -  .  .  -199 

Christmas  Hymn,           .           -            -            -            .  199 

Evening,      -            -            .            .            .            .            .  200 

Enigma,                          .            -                                      -  201 

To  the  Deity,           ......  201 

To  my  Sister  Lucretia,              -            -            .            .v  2Q3 

Prophecy,    -  "                    -                        .            -    ^        -  203 

Enigma,             -            -            .            .            .            ,  204 

Essay  on  the  Sacred  Writings,        •            -            -            .  205 


VI  CONTENTS. 

Thie  Destruction  tf  Socfom  and  Gomorrah,  206 

Versification  from'  Gssiaa,    -  -      207 

To.myrteair  Mamma,:    *                                     -  209 

'  Oh  &&&*£  oi*  Mm  -P.  H.  Webb,  -      209 

To  the  Evening  Star,     -  211 
To  my  Father,                      -                         ...      212 

On  Nature,        ......  213 

To  the  Infidel,                       -            -            -  -            -      215 

On  the  Mind,  -  ...  216 

On  the  Hope  of  my  Brother's  Return,  -  219 

To  my  Mother,  220 

Boabdil  el  Chico's  Farewell  to  Granada,  -  -  221 

The  Shunamite,  -  230 

Belshazzar's  Feast,  -  236 

To  my  Mother  on  Christmas  Day,  -  -  240 

On  visiting  the  Panorama  of  Geneva,  -  -  241 

The  Funeral  Bell,  242 

Lines  on  receiving  a  Blank-book  from  my  Mother,  -  244 

To  Fancy,  245 

Invocation  to  Spring,  -  246 

From  the  One  Hundred  and  Thirty-ninth  Psalm,  247 

Stanzas,  -  -  248 

Letter  to  a  Poetical  Correspondent,  -  250 

Stanzas,  -  -  252 

Versification  from  Ossian,  253 

To  the  Muse,  after  my  Brother's  Death,  -  -  256 
Lines  on  hearing  some  Passages  read  from  Mrs.  Hemans' 

"  Records  of  Woman,"  -  257 

An  Appeal  for  the  Blind,  258 

The  Smiles  of  Nature,  -  -  261 

On  a  Rose  received  from  Miss  Sedgwick,  264 

The  Church-Going  Bell,  -  -  267 

Fragment,  267 

Fragment,  -  -  268 

On  returning  to  Ballston,  -  269 

Twilight,  -  -  -  272 

On  the  Departure  of  a  Brother,  273 
Lines  written  after  reading  Accounts  of  the  Death  of 

Martyrs,        -                                  ...  275 


CONTENTS.  vil 

On  reading  Cowpgr's  Poems,                                                -  277 

Stanzas,             ----__  278 

Fragment,   -------  279 

Imitation  of  a  Scotch  Ballad,  -  280 

Ere  Thou  didst  Form,  ....  281 

A  Fragment,  -  ....  282 

Fragment  of  the  Spectre  Bridegroom,  -  282 

Elegy  upon  Leo,  an  old  House-Dog,  ...  288 

Morning,  -  -  -  -  289 
Lines  written  after  she  herself  began  to  fear  that  her 

disease  was  past  remedy,  ...  290 

To  my  Old  Home  at  Plattsburgh,  292 

Fame, 293 

On  my  Mother's  Fiftieth  Birthday,        -            -  293 

The  Storm  hath  Passed  By,              ....  294 

Epitaph  on  a  Young  Robin,        ....  295 

To  a  Moonbeam,      ......  296 

Evening,             ......  297 

A  Poetical  Letter  to  Henrietta,  -  -  299 

Lines  on  seeing  some  fragments  from  the  Tomb  of  Virgil,  302 
A  Short  Sketch  of  the  most  important  ideas  contained  in 

Cousin's  "Introduction  to  the  History  of  Philosophy,"  303 

Brief  Notes  from  Cousin's  Philosophy,  -  -  306 

Lenore,  -.--...  308 


BIOGRAPHY 


OF 


MISS    MARGARET    DAVIDSON. 


THE  reading  world  has  long  set  a  cherishing  value 
on  the  name  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  a  lovely  American 
girl,  who,  after  giving  early  promise  of  rare  poetic 
excellence,  was  snatched  from  existence  in  the  seven 
teenth  year  of  her  age.  An  interesting  biography  of 
her  by  President  Morse  of  the  American  Society  of 
Arts,  was  published  shortly  after  her  death ;  another  has 
since  appeared  from  the  classic  pen  of  Miss  Sedgwick, 
and  her  name  has  derived  additional  celebrity  in  Great 
Britain  from  an  able  article  by  Robert  Southey,  inserted 
some  years  since  in  the  London  Quarterly  Review. 

An  intimate  acquaintance  in  early  life  with  some  of 
the  relatives  of  Miss  Davidson  had  caused  me,  while 
in  Europe,  to  read  with  great  interest  every  thing  con 
cerning  her;  when,  therefore,  in  1833,  about  a  year 
after  my  return  to  the  United  States,  I  was  told,  while 
in  New  York,  that  Mrs.  Davidson,  the  mother  of  the 
deceased,  v;as  in  the  city  and  desirous  of  consulting 
me  about  a  new  edition  of  her  daughter's  works,  I 
lost  no  time  in  waiting  upon  her.  Her  appearance 

2 


10  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

corresponded  with  the  interesting  idea  given  of  her  in 
her  daughter's  biography;  she  was  feeble  and  ema 
ciated,  and  supported  by  pillows  in  an  easy  chair,  but 
there  were  the  lingerings  of  grace  and  beauty  in  her 
form  and  features,  and  her  eye  still  beamed  with  intel 
ligence  and  sensibility. 

While  conversing  with  her  on  the  subject  of  her 
daughter's  works,  I  observed  a  young  girl,  apparently 
not  more  than  eleven  years  of  age,  moving  quietly  about 
her ;  occasionally  arranging  a  pillow,  and  at  the  same 
time  listening  earnestly  to  our  conversation.  There 
was  an  intellectual  beauty  about  this  child  that  struck 
me ;  and  that  was  heightened  by  a  blushing  diffidence 
when  Mrs.  Davidson  presented  her  to  me  as  her 
daughter  Margaret.  Shortly  afterwards,  on  her  leaving 
the  room,  her  mother,  seeing  that  she  had  attracted  my 
attention,  spoke  of  her  as  having  evinced  the  same  early 
poetical  talent  that  had  distinguished  her  sister,  and  as 
evidence,  showed  me  several  copies  of  verses  remark 
able  for  such  a  child.  On  further  inquiry  I  found  that 
she  had  very  nearly  the  same  moral  and  physical  con 
stitution,  and  was  prone  to  the  same  feverish  excitement 
of  the  mind,  and  kindling  of  the  imagination  that  had 
acted  so  powerfully  on  the  fragile  frame  of  her  sister 
Lucretia.  I  cautioned  her  mother,  therefore,  against 
fostering  her  poetic  vein,  an$  advised  such  studies  and 
pursuits  as  would  tend  to  strengthen  her  judgment,  calm 
and  regulate  the  sensibilities,  and  enlarge  that  common 
sense  which  is  the  only  safe  foundation  for  all  intellectual 
superstructure. 

I  found  Mrs.  Davidson  fully  aware  of  the  importance 
of  such  a  course  of  treatment,  and  disposed  to  pursue 
it,  but  saw  at  the  same  time  that  she  would  have  diffi- 


BIOGRAPHY.  1 1 

culty  to  carry  ifinto  effect ;  having  to  contend  with  the 
additional  excitement  produced  in  the  mind  of  this 
sensitive  little  being  by  the  example  of  her  sister,  and 
the  intense  enthusiasm  she  evinced  concerning  her. 

Three  years  elapsed  before  I  again  saw  the  subject  of 
this  memoir.  She  was  then  residing  with  her  mother 
at  a  rural  retreat  in  the  neighbourhood  of  New  York. 
The  interval  that  had  elapsed  had  rapidly  developed  the 
powers  of  her  mind,  and  heightened  the  loveliness  of 
her  person,  but  my  apprehensions  had  been  verified. 
The  soul  was  wearing  out  the  body.  Preparations 
were  making  to  take  her  on  a  tour  for  the  benefit  of 
her  health,  and  her  mother  appeared  to  flatter  herself 
that  it  might  prove  efficacious ;  but  when  I  noticed  the 
fragile  delicacy  of  her  form,  the  hectic  bloom  of  her 
cheek,  and  the  almost  unearthly  lustre  of  her  eye,  I  felt 
convinced  that  she  was  not  long  for  this  world ;  in  truth, 
she  already  appeared  more  spiritual  than  mortal.  We 
parted,  and  I  never  saw  her  more.  Within  three  years 
afterwards  a  number  of  manuscripts  were  placed  in  my 
hands,  as  all  that  was  left  of  her.  They  were  accom 
panied  by  copious  memoranda  concerning  her,  furnished 
by  her  mother  at  my  request.  From  these  I  have 
digested  and  arranged  the  following  particulars,  adopt 
ing  in  many  places  the  original  manuscript,  without 
alteration.  In  fact,  the  narrative  will  be  found  almost 
as  illustrative  of  the  character  of  the  mother  as  of  the 
child ;  they  were  singularly  identified  in  taste,  feelings, 
and  pursuits ;  tenderly  entwined  together  by  maternal 
and  filial  affection ;  they  reflected  an  inexpressibly 
touching  grace  and  interest  upon  each  other  by  this 
holy  relationship,  and,  to  my  mind,  it  would  be  marring 


12  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  affecting  groups  in  the 
history  of  modern  literature,  to  sunder  them. 

Margaret  Miller  Davidson,  the  youngest  daughter  of 
Dr.  Oliver  and  Mrs.  Margaret  Davidson,  was  born  at 
the  family  residence  on  Lake  Champlain,  in  the  village 
of  Pittsburgh,  on  the  26th  of  March,  1823.  She 
evinced  fragility  of  constitution  from  her  very  birth. 
Her  sister  Lucretia,  whose  brief  poetical  career  has 
been  so  celebrated  in  literary  history,  was  her  early  and 
fond  attendant,  and  some  of  her  most  popular  lays  were 
composed  with  the  infant  sporting  in  her  arms.  She 
used  to  gaze  upon  her  little  sister  with  intense  delight, 
and,  remarking  the  uncommon  brightness  and  beauty 
of  her  eyes,  would  exclaim,  "  She  must,  she  will  be  a 
poet!"  The  exclamation  was  natural  enough  in  an 
enthusiastic  girl  who  regarded  every  thing  through  the 
medium  of  her  ruling  passion ;  but  it  was  treasured  up 
by  her  mother,  and  considered  almost  prophetic.  Lu 
cretia  did  not  live  to  see  her  prediction  verified.  Her 
brief  sojourn  upon  earth  was  over  before  Margaret  was 
quite  two  years  and  a  half  old ;  yet,  to  use  her  mother's 
fond  expressions,  "On  ascending  to  the  skies,  it  seemed 
as  if  her  poetic  mantle  fell,  like  a  robe  of  light,  on 
her  infant  sister." 

Margaret,  from  the  first  dawnings  of  intellect,  gave 
evidence  of  being  no  common  child  :  her  ideas  and 
expressions  were  not  like  those  of  other  children,  and 
often  startled  by  their  precocity.  Her  sister's  death 
had  made  a  strong  impression  on  her,  and,  though  so 
extremely  young,  she  already  understood  and  appre 
ciated  Lucretia's  character.  An  evidence  of  this,  and 
of  the  singular  precocity  of  thought  and  expression  just 


BIOGRAPHY.  13 

noticed,  occurred  but  a  few  months  afterwards.  As 
Mrs.  Davidson  was  seated,  at  twilight,  conversing  with 
a  female  friend,  Margaret  entered  the  room  with  a  light 
elastic  step,  for  wThich  she  was  remarked. 

"  That  child  never  walks,"  said  the  lady ;  then  turn 
ing  to  her,  "  Margaret,  where  are  you  flying  now  ]" 
said  she. 

"  To  heaven !"  replied  she,  pointing  up  with  her 
finger,  "  to  meet  my  sister  Lucretia,  when  I  get  my 
new  wings." 

"  Your  new  wings !     When  will  you  get  them  ?" 
"  Oh  soon,  very  soon ;  and  then  I  shall  fly !" 
"  She  loved,"  says  her  mother,  "  to  sit  hour  after 
hour  on  a  cushion  at  my  feet,  her  little  arms  resting 
upon  my  lap,  and  her  full  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  mine, 
listening  to  anecdotes  of  her  sister's  life  and  details  of 
the  events  which  preceded  her  death,  often  exclaiming, 
while  her  face   beamed  with   mingled   emotions,  '  Oh 
mamma,  I  will  try  to  fill  her  place !    Oh  teach  me  to  be 
like  her !' " 

Much  of  Mrs.  Davidson's  time  was  now  devoted  to 
her  daily  instruction ;  noticing,  however,  her  lively  sen 
sibility,  the  rapid  developement  of  her  mind,  and  her 
eagerness  for  knowledge,  her  lessons  were  entirely  oral, 
for  she  feared  for  the  present  to  teach  her  to  read,  lest, 
by  too  early  and  severe  application,  she  should  injure 
her  delicate  frame.  She  had  nearly  attained  her  fourth 
year  before  she  was  taught  to  spell.  Ill  health  then 
obliged  Mrs.  Davidson,  for  the  space  of  a  year,  to 
entrust  her  tuition  to  a  lady  in  Canada,  a  valued  friend, 
who  had  other  young  girls  under  her  care.  When  she 
returned  home  she  could  read  fluently,  and  had  com 
menced  letters  in  writing.  It  was  now  decided  that  she 


14  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

should  not  be  placed  in  any  public  seminary,  but  that 
her  education  should  be  conducted  by  her  mother.  The 
task  was  rendered  delightful  by  the  docility  of  the  pupil; 
by  her  affectionate  feelings,  and  quick  kindling  sensibili 
ties.  This  maternal  instruction,  while  it  kept  her  apart 
from  the  wrorld,  and  fostered  a  singular  purity  and 
innocence  of  thought,  contributed  greatly  to  enhance 
her  imaginative  powers,  for  the  mother  partook  largely 
of  the  poetical  temperament  of  the  child ;  it  was,  in 
fact,  one  poetical  spirit  ministering  to  another. 

Among  the  earliest  indications  of  the  poetical  charac 
ter  in  this  child  were  her  perceptions  of  the  beauty  of 
natural  scenery.  Her  home  was  in  a  picturesque  neigh 
bourhood,  calculated  to  awaken  and  foster  such  percep 
tions.  The  following  description  of  it  is  taken  from  one 
of  her  own  writings :  "  There  stood  on  the  banks  of  the 
Saranac  a  small  neat  cottage,  which  peeped  forth  from 
the  surrounding  foliage,  the  image  of  rural  quiet  and 
contentment.  An  old-fashioned  piazza  extended  along 
the  front,  shaded  with  vines  and  honeysuckles  ;  the  turf 
on  the  bank  of  the  river  was  of  the  richest  and  brightest 
emerald ;  and  the  wild  rose  and  sweet  briar,  which 
twined  over  the  neat  enclosure,  seemed  to  bloom  with 
more  delicate  freshness  and  perfume  within  the  bounds 
of  this  earthly  paradise.  The  scenery  around  was 
wildly  yet  beautifully  romantic ;  the  clear  blue  river, 
glancing  and  sparkling  at  its  feet,  seemed  only  as  a 
preparation  for  another  and  more  magnificent  view, 
when  the  stream,  gliding  on  to  the  west,  was  buried  in 
the  broad  white  bosom  of  Champlain,  which  stretched 
back,  wave  after  wave  in  the  distance,  until  lost  in  faint 
blue  mists  that  veiled  the  sides  of  its  guardian  mountains, 
seeming  more  lovely  from  their  indistinctness." 


BIOGRAPHY.  15 

Such  were  tlie  natural  scenes  which  presented  them 
selves  to  her  dawning  perceptions,  and  she  is  said  Jo 
have  evinced,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  a  remarkable 
sensibility  to  their  charms.  A  beautiful  tree,  or  shrub, 
or  flower  would  fill  her  with  delight ;  she  would  note 
with  surprising  discrimination  the  various  effects  of  the 
weather  upon  the  surrounding  landscape ;  the  mountains 
wrapt  in  clouds ;  the  torrents  roaring  down  their  sides 
in  times  of  tempest;  the  "bright  warm  sunshine,"  the 
"  cooling  shower,"  the  "  pale  cold  moon,"  for  such  was 
already  her  poetical  phraseology.  A  bright  starlight 
night,  also,  would  seem  to  awaken  a  mysterious  rapture 
in  her  infant  bosom,  and  one  of  her  early  expressions  in 
speaking  of  the  stars  was,  thai,  they  "  shone  like  the  eyes 
of  angels." 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  the  maternal 
instruction  was  in  guiding  these  kindling  perceptions 
from  nature  up  to  nature's  God. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  observes  her  mother,  "  at  what  age 
her  religious  impressions  were  imbibed.  They  seemed 
to  be  interwoven  with  her  existence.  From  the  very 
first  exercise  of  reason  she  evinced  strong  devotional 
feelings,  and,  although  she  loved  play,  she  would  at  any 
time  prefer  seating  herself  beside  me,  and,  with  every 
faculty  absorbed  in  the  subject,  listen  while  I  attempted 
to  recount  the  wonders  of  Providence,  and  point  out  the 
wisdom  and  benevolence  of  God,  as  manifested  in  the 
works  of  creation.  Her  young  heart  would  swell  with 
rapture,  and  the  tear  would  tremble  in  her  eye,  when  1 
explained  to  her,  that  he  who  clothed  the  trees  with 
verdure,  and  gave  the  rose  its  bloom,  had  also  created 
her  with  capacities  to  enjoy  their  beauties :  that  the 
same  power  which  clothed  the  mountains  with  sublimity, 


16  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

made  her  happiness  his  daily  care.  Thus  a  sentiment 
o£  gratitude  and  affection  towards  the  Creator  entered 
into  all  her  emotions  of  delight  at  the  wonders  and 
beauties  of  creation." 

There  is  nothing  more  truly  poetical  than  religion 
when  properly  inculcated,  and  it  will  be  found  that  this 
early  piety,  thus  amiably  instilled,  had  the  happiest 
effect  upon  her  throughout  life ;  elevating  and  ennobling 
her  genius ;  lifting  her  above  every  thing  gross  and 
sordid ;  attuning  her  thoughts  to  pure  and  lofty  themes; 
heightening  rather  than  impairing  her  enjoyments,  and 
at  all  times  giving  an  ethereal  lightness  to  her  spirit. 
To  use  her  mother's  words,  "  she  was  like  a  bird  on  the 
wing,  her  fairy  form  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  earth 
as  she  passed."  She  was  at  times  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy 
from  the  excitement  of  her  imagination  and  the  exube 
rance  of  her  pleasurable  sensations.  In  such  moods 
every  object  of  natural  beauty  inspired  a  degree  of 
rapture  always  mingled  with  a  feeling  of  gratitude  to 
the  Being  "who  had  made  so  many  beautiful  things 
for  her."  In  such  moods  too  her  little  heart  would 
overflow  with  love  to  all  around ;  indeed,  adds  her 
mother,  to  love  and  be  beloved  was  necessary  to 
her  existence.  Private  prayer  became  a  habit  with 
her  at  a  very  early  age;  it  was  almost  a  spontaneous 
expression  of  her  feelings,  the  breathings  of  an  affec 
tionate  and  delighted  heart. 

"  By  the  time  she  was  six  years  old,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  her  language  assumed  an  elevated  tone, 
and  her  mind  seemed  filled  with  poetic  imagery,  blended 
with  veins  of  religious  thought.  At  this  period  I  was 
chiefly  confined  to  rny  room  by  debility.  She  was  my 
companion  and  friend,  and,  as  the  greater  part  of  my 


BIOGRAPHY.  17 

time  was  devoted  to  her  instruction,  she  advanced 
rapidly  in  her  studies.  She  read  not  only  well,  but 
elegantly.  Her  love  of  reading  amounted  almost  to  a 
passion,  and  her  intelligence  surpassed  belief.  Strangers 
viewed  with  astonishment  a  child  little  more  than  six 
years  old  reading  with  enthusiastic  delight  Thomson's 
Seasons,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  Cowper's  Task,  the 
writings  of  Milton,  Byron,  and  Scott,  and  marking, 
with  taste  and  discrimination,  the  passages  which  struck 
her.  The  sacred  writings  were  her  daily  studies ;  with 
her  little  Bible  on  her  lap,  she  usually  seated  herself 
near  me,  and  there  read  a  chapter  from  the  holy 
volume.  This  was  a  duty  which  she  was  taught  not 
to  perform  lightly,  and  we  have  frequently  spent  two 
hours  in  reading  and  remarking  upon  the  contents  of  a 
chapter." 

A  tendency  to  "lisp  in  numbers,"  was  observed  in 
her  about  this  time.  She  frequently  made  little  im 
promptus  in  rhyme,  without  seeming  to  be  conscious 
that  there  was  any  thing  peculiar  in  the  habit.  On  one 
occasion,  while  standing  by  a  window  at  W7hich  her 
mother  was  seated,  and  looking  out  upon  a  lovely  land 
scape,  she  .exclaimed 

"  See  those  lofty,  those  grand  trees ; 
Their  high  tops  waving  in  the  breeze ; 
They  cast  their  shadows  on  the  ground, 
And  spread  their  fragrance  all  around." 

Her  mother,  who  had  several  times  been  struck  by  little 
rhyming  ejaculations  of  the  kind,  now  handed  her 
writing  implements  and  requested  her  to  write  down 
what  she  had  just  uttered.  She  appeared  surprised  at 
the  request,  but  complied ;  writing  it  down  as  if  it  had 


18  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

been  prose,  without  arranging  it  in  a  stanza,  or  com 
mencing  the  lines  with  capitals ;  not  seeming  aware 
that  she  had  rhymed.  The  notice  attracted  to  this 
impromptu,  however,  had  its  effect,  whether  for  good 
or  for  evil.  From  that  time  she  wrote  some  scraps  of 
poetry,  or  rather  rhyme,  every  day,  which  would  be 
treasured  up  with  delight  by  her  mother,  who  watched 
with  trembling,  yet  almost  fascinated  anxiety,  these  pre 
mature  blossomings  of  poetic  fancy. 

On  another  occasion,  towards  sunset,  as  Mrs.  David 
son  was  seated  by  the  window  of  her  bed-room,  little 
Margaret  ran  in,  greatly  excited,  exclaiming  that  there 
was  an  awful  thundergust  rising,  and  that  the  clouds 
were  black  as  midnight. 

"  I  gently  dre^w  her  to  my  bosom,"  says  Mrs.  David 
son,  "  and  after  I  had  soothed  her  agitation,  she  seated 
herself  at  my  feet,  laid  her  head  in  my  lap,  and  gazed 
at  the  rising  storm.  As  the  thunder  rolled,  she  clung 
closer  to  my  knees,  and  when  the  tempest  burst  in  all 
its  fury,  I  felt  her  tremble.  I  passed  my  arms  round 
her,  but  soon  found  it  was  not  fear  that  agitated  her. 
Her  eyes  kindled  as  she  watched  the  warring  elements, 
until  extending  her  hand,  she  exclaimed, 

"  The  lightning  plays  along  the  sky, 
The  thunder  rolls  and  bursts  from  high  ! 
Jehovah's  voice  amid  the  storm 
I  heard — methinks  I  see  his  form, 
As  riding  on  the  clouds  of  even, 
He  spreads  his  glory  o'er  the  heaven." 

This  likewise  her  mother  made  her  write  dowrn  at  the 
instant ;  thus  giving  additional  impulse  to  this  growing 
inclination. 


BIOGRAPHY.  19 

I  shall  select  -ene  more  instance  of  this  early  facility 
at  numbers,  especially  as  it  involves  a  case  of  con 
science,  creditable  to  her  early  powers  of  self-exami 
nation.  She  had  been  reproved  by  her  mother  for 
some  trifling  act  of  disobedience,  but  aggravated  her 
fault  by  attempting  to  justify  it;  she  was,  therefore, 
banished  to  her  bed-room  until  she  should  become 
sensible  of  her  error.  Two  hours  elapsed,  without  her 
evincing  any  disposition  to  yield ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
persisted  in  vindicating  her  conduct,  and  accused  her 
mother  of  injustice. 

Mrs.  Davidson  mildly  reasoned  with  her;  entreated 
her  to  examine  the  spirit  by  which  she  was  actuated ; 
placed  before  her  the  example  of  our  Saviour  in  sub 
mitting  to  the  will  of  his  parents ;  and,  exhorting  her  to 
pray  to  God  to  assist  her,  and  to  give  her  meekness  and 
humility,  left  her  again  to  her  reflections. 

"  An  hour  or  two  afterwards,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson, 
"  she  desired  I  would  admit  her.  I  sent  word  that, 
when  she  was  in  a  proper  frame  of  mind,  I  would  be 
glad  to  see  her.  The  little  creature  came  in,  bathed  in 
tears,  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  sobbing 
violently,  put  into  my  hands  the  following  verses : 

"  Forgiven  by  my  Saviour  dear, 

For  all  the  wrongs  I've  done, 
What  other  wish  could  I  have  here  ? 
Alas  there  yet  is  one. 

I  know  my  God  has  pardoned  me, 

I  know  he  loves  me  still ; 
I  wish  forgiven  I  may  be, 

By  her  I've  used  so  ill. 

Good  resolutions  I  have  made, 
And  thought  I  loved  my  Lord; 


20  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  ah  !  I  trusted  in  myself, 
And  broke  my  foolish  word. 

But  give  me  strength,  oh  Lord,  to  trust 

For  help  alone  in  thee ; 
Thou  knowest  my  inmost  feelings  best, 

Oh  teach  me  to  obey." 

We  have  spoken  of  the  buoyancy  of  Margaret's 
feelings,  and  the  vivid  pleasure  she  received  from  ex 
ternal  objects ;  she  entered,  however,  but  little  into  the 
amusements  of  the  few  children  with  whom  she 
associated,  nor  did  she  take  much  delight  in  their 
society ;  she  was  conscious  of  a  difference  between 
them  and  herself,  but  scarce  knew  in  what  it  consisted. 
Their  sports  seemed  to  divert  for  a  while,  but  soon 
wearied  her,  and  she  would  fly  to  a  book,  or  seek  the 
conversation  of  persons  of  maturer  age  and  mind. 
Her  highest  pleasures  were  intellectual.  She  seemed 
to  live  in  a  world  of  her  own  creation,  surrounded  by 
the  images  of  her  own  fancy.  Her  own  childish 
amusements  had  originality  and  freshness,  and  called 
into  action  the  mental  powers,  so  as  to  render  them 
interesting  to  persons  of  all  ages.  If  at  play  with  her 
little  dog  or  kitten,  she  would  carry  on  imaginary 
dialogues  between  them ;  always  ingenious,  and  some 
times  even  brilliant.  If  her  doll  happened  to  be  the 
plaything  of  the  moment,  it  was  invested  with  a  cha 
racter  exhibiting  knowledge  of  history,  and  all  the 
powers  of  memory  which  a  child  can  be  supposed 
to  exercise.  Whether  it  was  Mary  Queen  of  Scots, 
or  her  rival,  Elizabeth,  or  the  simple  cottage  maiden, 
each  character  was  maintained  with  propriety.  In 
telling  stories  (an  amusement  all  children  are  fond  of,) 
hers  were  always  original,  and  of  a  kind  calculated  to 


BIOGRAPHY.  21 

elevate  the  minds  of  the  children  present,  giving  them 
exalted  views  of  truth,  honour,  and  integrity ;  and  the 
sacrifice  of  all  selfish  feelings  to  the  happiness  of  others 
was  illustrated  in  the  heroine  of  her  story. 

This  talent  for  extemporaneous  story-telling  increased 
with  exercise,  until  she  would  carry  on  a  narrative  for 
hours  together ;  and  in  nothing  was  the  precocity  of  her 
inventive  powers  more  apparent  than  in  the  discrimina 
tion  and  individuality  of  her  fictitious  characters;  the 
consistency  with  which  they  were  sustained;  the  graphic 
force  of  her  descriptions ;  the  elevation  of  her  senti 
ments,  and  the  poetic  beauty  of  her  imagery. 

This  early  gift  caused  her  to  be  sought  by  some  of 
the  neighbours;  who  would  lead  her  unconsciously  into 
an  exertion  of  her  powers.  Nothing  was  done  by  her 
from  vanity  or  a  disposition  to  "show  off,"  but  she 
would  become  excited  by  their  attention  and  the  plea 
sure  they  seemed  to  derive  from  her  narrations.  When 
thus  excited,  a  whole  evening  would  be  occupied  by  one 
of  her  stories ;  and  when  the  servant  came  to  take  her 
home,  she  w^ould  observe,  in  the  phraseology  of  the 
magazines,  "  the  story  to  be  continued  in  our  next." 

Between  the  age  of  six  and  seven  she  entered  upon  a 
course  of  English  grammar,  geography,  history,  and 
rhetoric,  still  under  the  direction  and  superintendence  of 
her  mother ;  but  such  was  her  ardour  and  application, 
that  it  was  necessary  to  keep  her  in  check,  lest  a  too 
intense  pursuit  of  knowledge  should  impair  her  delicate 
constitution.  She  was  not  required  to  commit  her 
lessons  to  memory,  but  to  give  the  substance  of  them 
in  her  own  language,  and  to  explain  their  purport; 
thus  she  learnt  nothing  by  rote,  but  every  thing  under- 


22  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

standingly,  and  soon  acquired  a  knowledge  of  the  rudi 
ments  of  English  education.  The  morning  lessons 
completed,  the  rest  of  the  day  was  devoted  to  recrea 
tion  ;  occasionally  sporting  and  gathering  wild  flowers 
on  the  banks  of  the  Saranac ;  though  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  constitution  prevented  her  taking  as 
much  exercise  as  her  mother  could  have  wished. 

In  1830  an  English  gentleman,  who  had  been  strongly 
interested  and  affected  by  the  perusal  of  the  biography 
and  writings  of  Lucretia  Davidson,  visited  Plattsburgh, 
in  the  course  of  a  journey  from  Quebec  to  New  York, 
to  see  the  place  where  she  was  born  and  had  been 
buried.  While  there,  he  sought  an  interview  with  Mrs. 
Davidson,  and  his  appearance  and  deportment  were 
such  as  at  once  to  inspire  respect  and  confidence.  He 
had  much  to  ask  about  the  object  of  his  literary  pilgrim 
age,  but  his  inquiries  were  managed  with  the  most 
considerate  delicacy.  While  he  was  thus  conversing 
with  Mrs.  Davidson,  the  little  Margaret,  then  about 
seven  years  of  age,  came  tripping  into  the  room,  with  a 
book  in  one  hand  and  a  pencil  in  the  other.  He  was 
charmed  with  her  bright  intellectual  countenance,  but 
still  more  with  finding  that  the  volume  in  her  hand  was 
a  copy  of  Thomson's  Seasons,  in  which  she  had  been 
marking  with  a  pencil  the  passages  which  most  pleased 
her.  He  drew  her  to  him ;  his  frank,  winning  manner 
soon  banished  her  timidity;  he  engaged  her  in  conver 
sation,  and  found,  to  his  astonishment,  a  counterpart  of 
Lucretia  Davidson  before  him.  His  visit  was  neces 
sarily  brief;  but  his  manners,  appearance,  and  conver 
sation,  and,  above  all,  the  extraordinary  interest  with 
which  he  had  regarded  her,  sank  deep  in  the  affectionate 


BIOGRAPHY.  23 

heart  of  the  child,  and  inspired  a  friendship  that  re 
mained  one  of  her  strongest  attachments  through  the 
residue  of  her  transient  existence. 

The  delicate  state  of  her  health  this  summer  rendered 
it  advisable  to  take  her  to  the  Saratoga  Springs,  the 
waters  of  which  appeared  to  have  a  beneficial  effect. 
After  remaining  here  some  time,  she  accompanied  her 
parents  to  New  York.  It  was  her  first  visit  to  the 
city,  and  of  course  fruitful  of  wonder  and  excitement ; 
a  new  world  seemed  to  open  before  her ;  new  scenes, 
new  friends,  new  occupations,  new  sources  of  instruc 
tion  and  enjoyment ;  her  young  heart  was  overflowing, 
and  her  head  giddy  with  delight.  To  complete  her 
happiness,  she  again  met  with  her  English  friend,  whom 
she  greeted  with  as  much  eagerness  and  joy  as  if  he 
had  been  a  companion  of  her  own  age.  He  manifested 
the  same  interest  in  her  that  he  had  shown  at  Platts- 
burgh,  and  took  great  pleasure  in  accompanying  her  to 
many  of  the  exhibitions  and  places  of  intellectual  gratifi 
cation  of  the  metropolis,  and  marking  their  effects  upon 
her  fresh,  unhackneyed  feelings  and  intelligent  mind. 
In  company  with  him  she,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
her  life,  visited  the  theatre.  It  was  a  scene  of  magic  to 
her,  or  rather,  as  she  said,  like  a  "brilliant  dream." 
She  often  recurred  to  it  with  vivid  recollection,  and  the 
effect  of  it  upon  her  imagination  was  subsequently  appa 
rent  in  the  dramatic  nature  of  some  of  her  writings. 

One  of  her  greatest  subjects  of  regret  on  leaving 
New  York,  was  the  parting  with  her  intellectual  Eng 
lish  friend ;  but  she  was  consoled  by  his  promising  to 
pay  Plattsburgh  another  visit,  and  to  pass  a  few  days 
there  previous  to  his  departure  for  England.  Soon 
after  returning  to  Plattsburgh,  however,  Mrs.  Davidson 


24  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

received  a  letter  from  him  saying  that  he  was  unex 
pectedly  summoned  home,  and  would  have  to  defer  his 
promised  visit  until  his  return  to  the  United  States. 

It  was  a  severe  disappointment  to  Margaret,  who  had 
conceived  for  him  an  enthusiastic  friendship  remarkable 
in  such  a  child.  His  letter  was  accompanied  by  pre 
sents  of  books  and  various  tasteful  remembrances,  but 
the  sight  of  them  only  augmented  her  affliction.  She 
wrapped  them  all  carefully  in  paper,  and  treasured  them 
up  in  a  particular  drawer,  where  they  were  daily  visited, 
and  many  a  tear  shed  over  them. 

The  excursions  to  Saratoga  and  New  York  had 
improved  her  health,  and  given  a  fresh  impulse  to  her 
mind.  She  resumed  her  studies  with  great  eagerness ; 
her  spirits  rose  with  mental  exercise ;  she  soon  was  in 
one  of  her  veins  of  intellectual  excitement.  She  read, 
she  wrote,  she  danced,  she  sang,  and  was  for  the  time 
the  happiest  of  the  happy.  In  the  freshness  of  early 
morning,  and  towards  sunset,  when  the  heat  of  the  day 
was  over,  she  would  stroll  on  the  banks  of  the  Sara- 
nac,  following  its  course  to  where  it  pours  itself  into 
the  beautiful  Bay  of  Cumberland  in  Lake  Champlain. 
There  the  rich  variety  of  scenery  which  bursts  upon 
the  eye ;  the  islands,  scattered,  like  so  many  gems,  on 
the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake ;  the  green  mountains  of 
Vermont  beyond,  clothed  in  the  atmospherical  charms 
of  our  magnificent  climate ;  all  these  would  inspire  a 
degree  of  poetic  rapture  in  her  mind,  mingled  with  a 
sacred  melancholy;  for  these  were  scenes  which  had 
often  awakened  the  enthusiasm  of  her  deceased  sister 
Lucretia. 

Her  mother,  in  her  memoranda,  gives  a  picture  of 
her  in  one  of  these  excited  moods. 


BIOGRAPHY.  25 

"  After  an  evening's  stroll  along  the  river  bank,  we 
seated  ourselves  by  a  window  to  observe  the  effect  of 
the  full  moon  rising  over  the  waters.  A  holy  calm 
seemed  to  pervade  all  nature.  With  her  head  resting 
on  my  bosom,  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  firmament,  she 
pointed  to  a  particularly  bright  star,  and  said  : 

"  Behold  that  bright  and  sparkling  star 
Which  setteth  as  a  queen  afar : 
Over  the  blue  and  spangled  heaven 
It  sheds  its  glory  in  the  even! 

Our  Jesus  made  that  sparkling  star 
Which  shines  and  twinkles  from  afar. 
Oh !  'twas  that  bright  and  glorious  gem 
Which  shone  o'er  ancient  Bethlehem !" 

"  The  summer  passed  swiftly  away,"  continues  her 
mother,  "  yet  her  intellectual  advances  seemed  to  out 
strip  the  wings  of  time.  As  the  autumn  approached, 
however,  I  could  plainly  perceive  that  her  health  was 
again  declining.  The  chilly  winds  from  the  lake  were 
too  keen  for  her  weak  lungs.  My  own  health  too  was 
failing;  it  was  determined,  therefore,  that  we  should 

pass  the  winter  with  my  eldest  daughter,  Mrs.  T , 

who  resided  in  Canada,  in  the  same  latitude,  it  is  true, 
but  in  an  inland  situation.  This  arrangement  was  very 
gratifying  to  Margaret ;  and,  had  my  health  improved 
by  the  change,  as  her  own  did,  she  would  have  been 
perfectly  happy.  During  this  period  she  attended  to  a 
regular  course  of  study,  under  my  direction ;  for,  though 
confined  wholly  to  my  bed,  and  suffering  extremely  from 
pain  and  debility,  Heaven,  in  mercy,  preserved  my  men 
tal  faculties  from  the  wreck  that  disease  had  made  of 
my  physical  powers."  The  same  plan  as  heretofore 

3 


26  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

was  pursued.  Nothing  was  learnt  by  rote,  and  the 
lessons  were  varied  to  prevent  fatigue  and  distaste, 
though  study  was  always  with  her  a  pleasing  duty 
rather  than  an  arduous  task.  After  she  had  studied  her 
lessons  by  herself  she  would  discuss  them  in  conversa 
tion  with  her  mother.  Her  reading  was  under  the 
same  guidance.  "I  selected  her  books,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  with  much  care,  and  to  my  surprise  found 
that,  notwithstanding  her  poetical  temperament,  she 
had  a  high  relish  for  history,  and  that  she  would  read 
with  as  much  apparent  interest  an  abstruse  treatise  that 
called  forth  the  reflecting  powers,  as  she  did  poetry  or 
works  of  the  imagination.  In  polite  literature  Addison 
was  her  favourite  author,  but  Shakspeare  she  dwelt 
upon  with  enthusiasm.  She  was  restricted,  however,  to 
certain  marked  portions  of  this  inimitable  writer;  and 
having  been  told  that  it  was  not  proper  for  her  to  read 
the  whole,  such  was  her  innate  delicacy  and  her  sense 
of  duty,  that  she  never  overstepped  the  prescribed 
boundaries." 

In  the  intervals  of  study  she  amused  herself  with 
drawing,  for  which  she  had  a  natural  talent,  and  soon 
began  to  sketch  with  considerable  skill.  As  her  health 
had  improved  since  her  removal  to  Canada,  she  fre 
quently  partook  of  the  favourite  winter  recreation  of  a 
drive  in  a  traineau  or  sleigh,  in  company  with  her  sister 
and  her  brother-in-law,  and  completely  enveloped  in 
furs  and  buffalo-robes ;  and  nothing  put  her  in  a  finer 
flow  of  spirits,  than  thus  skimming  along,  in  bright 
January  weather,  on  the  sparkling  snow,  to  the  merry 
music  of  the  jingling  sleigh-bells.  The  winter  passed 
away  without  any  improvement  in  the  health  of  Mrs. 
Davidson ;  indeed  she  continued  a  helpless  invalid,  con- 


BIOGRAPHY.  27 

fined  to  her  bed,  for  eighteen  months ;  during  all  which 
time  little  Margaret  was  her  almost  constant  com 
panion  and  attendant. 

"  Her  tender  solicitude,"  writes  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  en 
deared  her  to  me  beyond  any  other  earthly  thing  ; 
although  under  the  roof  of  a  beloved  and  affectionate 
daughter,  and  having  constantly  with  me  an  experienced 
and  judicious  nurse,  yet  the  soft  and  gentle  voice  of  my 
little  darling  was  more  than  medicine  to  my  worn-out 
frame.  If  her  delicate  hand  smoothed  my  pillow,  it 
was  soft  to  my  aching  temples,  and  her  sweet  smile 
would  cheer  me  in  the  lowest  depths  of  despondency. 
She  would  draw  for  me — read  to  me — and  often,  when 
writing  at  her  little  table,  would  surprise  me  by  some 
tribute  of  love,  which  never  failed  to  operate  as  a 
cordial  to  my  heart.  At  a  time  when  my  life  was 
despaired  of,  she  wrote  the  following  lines  while  sitting 
at  my  bed — 

"  I'll  to  thy  arms  in  rapture  fly, 
And  wipe  the  tear  that  dims  thine  eye ; 
Thy  pleasure  will  be  my  delight, 
Till  thy  pure  spirit  takes  its  flight. 

When  left  alone — when  thou  art  gone, 

Yet  still  I  will  not  feel  alone  : 

Thy  spirit  still  will  hover  near, 

And  guard  thy  orphan  daughter  dear !" 

In  this  trying  moment,  when  Mrs.  Davidson  herself 
had  given  up  all  hope  of  recovery,  one  of  the  most 
touching  sights  was  to  see  this  affectionate  and  sensitive 
child  tasking  herself  to  achieve  a  likeness  of  her  mother, 
that  it  might  remain  with  her  as  a  memento.  "  How 
often  would  she  set  by  my  bed,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson, 


28  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  striving  to  sketch  features  that  had  been  vainly 
attempted  by  more  than  one  finished  artist ;  and  when 
she  found  that  she  had  failed,  and  that  the  likeness 
could  not  be  recognised,  she  would  put  her  arms  around 
my  neck  and  weep,  and  say,  « Oh  dear  mamma,  I  shall 
lose  you,  and  not  even  a  sketch  of  your  features  will  be 
left  me!  and  if  I  live  to  be  a  woman,  perhaps  I  shall 
even  forget  how  you  looked !'  This  idea  gave  her  great 
distress,  sweet  lamb !  I  then  little  thought  this  bosom 
would  have  been  her  dying  pillow !" 

After  being  reduced  to  the  very  verge  of  the  grave, 
Mrs.  Davidson  began  slowly  to  recover,  but  a  long 
time  elapsed  before  she  was  restored  to  her  usual  de 
gree  of  health.  Margaret  in  the  mean  time  increased 
in  strength  and  stature;  she  still  looked  fragile  and 
delicate,  but  she  was  always  cheerful  and  buoyant. 
To  relieve  the  monotony  of  her  life,  which  had  been 
passed  too  much  in  a  sick  chamber,  and  to  preserve  her 
spirits  fresh  and  elastic,  little  excursions  were  devised 
for  her  about  the  country,  to  Missisque  Bay,  St.  Johns, 
Alburgh,  Champlain,  &c.  The  following  lines,  address 
ed  to  her  mother  on  one  of  these  occasional  separations, 
will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  her  compositions  in  this  the 
eighth  year  of  her  age,  and  of  the  affectionate  current 
of  her  feelings. 

"  Farewell,  dear  mother ;  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  wo, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 

May  the  Almighty  Father  spread 
His  sheltering  wings  above  thy  head ; 
It  is  not  long  that  we  must  part, 
Then  cheer  thy  downcast,  drooping  heart. 


BIOGRAPHY.  29 

Remember,  oh  remember  me, 
Unceasing  is  my  love  for  thee ; 
When  death  shall  sever  earthly  ties, 
When  thy  loved  form  all  senseless  lies, 

Oh  that  my  soul  with  thine  could  flee, 
And  roam  through  wide  eternity ; 
Could  tread  with  thee  the  courts  of  heaven, 
And  count  the  brilliant  stars  of  even ! 

Farewell,  dear  mother ;  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  wo, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow." 

In  the  month  of  January,  1833,  while  still  in  Canada, 
she  was  brought  very  low  by  an  attack  of  scarlet  fever, 
under  which  she  lingered  many  weeks,  but  had  so  far 
recovered  by  the  middle  of  April  as  to  take  the  air  in  a 
carriage.  Her  mother,  too,  having  regained  sufficient 
strength  to  travel,  it  was  thought  advisable,  for  both 
their  healths,  to  try  the  effect  of  a  journey  to  New 
York.  They  accordingly  departed  about  the  beginning 
of  May,  accompanied  by  a  family  party.  Of.  this 
journey,  and  a  sojourn  of  several  months  in  New  York, 
she  kept  a  journal,  which  evinces  considerable  habits  of 
observation,  but  still  more  that  kindling  of  the  imagina 
tion  which,  in  the  poetic  mind,  gives  to  commonplace 
realities  the  witchery  of  romance.  She  was  deeply 
interested  by  visits  to  the  "  School  for  the  Blind,"  and 
the  "  Deaf  and  Dumb  Asylum  ;"  and  makes  a  minute  of 
a  visit  of  a  very  different  nature — to  Black  Hawk  and 
his  fellow- chiefs,  prisoners  of  war,  who,  by  command  of 
government,  were  taken  about  through  various  of  our 
cities,  that  they  might  carry  back  to  their  brethren  in 


30  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

the  wilderness,  a  cautionary  idea  of  the  overwhelming 
power  of  the  white  man. 

"  On  the  25th  June  I  saw  and  shook  hands  with  the 
famous  Black  Hawk,  the  Indian  chief,  the  enemy  of  our 
nation,  who  has  massacred  our  patriots,  murdered  our 
women  and  helpless  children  !  Why  is  he  treated  with 
so  much  attention  by  those  whom  he  has  injured?  It 
cannot  surely  arise  from  benevolence.  It  must  be 
policy.  Be  it  what  it  may,  I  cannot  understand  it. 
His  son,  the  Prophet,  and  others  who  accompanied  him, 
interested  me  more  than  the  chief  himself.  His  son  is 
no  doubt  a  fine  specimen  of  Indian  beauty.  He  has  a 
high  brow,  piercing  black  eyes,  long  black  hair,  which 
hangs  down  his  back,  and,  upon  the  whole,  is  well 
suited  to  captivate  an  Indian  maiden.  The  Prophet  we 
found  surveying  himself  in  a  looking-glass,  undoubtedly 
wishing  to  show  himself  off  to  the  best  advantage  in 
the  fair  assembly  before  him.  The  rest  were  dozing  on 
a  sofa,  but  they  were  awakened  sufficiently  to  shake 
hands  with  us,  and  others  who  had  the  courage  to  ap 
proach  so  near  them.  I  remember  I  dreamed  of  them 
the  following  night." 

During  this  visit  to  New  York  she  was  the  life  and 
delight  of  the  relatives  with  whom  she  resided,  and 
they  still  retain  a  lively  recollection  of  the  intellectual 
nature  of  her  sports  among  her  youthful  companions, 
and  of  the  surprising  aptness  and  fertile  invention  dis 
played  by  her  in  contriving  new  sources  of  amusement. 
She  had  a  number  of  playmates,  nearly  of  her  own 
age,  and  one  of  her  projects  was  to  get  up  a  dramatic 
entertainment  for  the  gratification  of  themselves  and 
their  friends.  The  proposal  was  readily  agreed  to 
provided  she  would  write  the  play.  This  she  readily 


BIOGRAPHY.  31 

J0) 

undertook,  and  indeed  devised  and  directed  the  whole 
arrangements,  though  she  had  never  been  but  once  to  a 
theatre,  and  that  on  her  previous  visit  to  New  York. 
Her  little  companions  were  now  all  busily  employed, 
under  her  directions,  preparing  dresses  and  equipments  ; 
robes  with  trains  were  fitted  out  for  the  female  charac 
ters,  and  quantities  of  paper  and  tinsel  were  consumed 
in  making  caps,  helmets,  spears,  and  sandals. 

After  four  or  five  days  had  been  spent  in  these  pre 
parations,  Margaret  was  called  upon  to  produce  the 
play.  "  Oh  !"  she  replied,  "  I  have  not  written  it  yet." 
— "  But  how  is  this ! — Do  you  make  the  dresses  first, 
and  then  write  the  play  to  suit  them  ?' — "  Oh  !"  replied 
she  gaily,  "  the  writing  of  the  play  is  the  easiest  part  of 
the  preparation ;  it  will  be  ready  before  the  dresses." 
And,  in  fact,  in  two  days  she  produced  her  drama, 
"  The  Tragedy  of  Alethia."  It  was  not  very  volu 
minous,  to  be  sure,  but  it  contained  within  it  sufficient 
of  high  character  and  astounding  and  bloody  incident 
to  furnish  out  a  drama  of  five  times  its  size.  A  king 
and  queen  of  England  resolutely  bent  upon  marrying 
their  daughter,  the  Princess  Alethia,  to  the  Duke  of 
Ormond.  The  princess  most  perversely  and  dolor 
ously  in  love  with  a  mysterious  cavalier,  who  figures 
at  her  father's  court  under  the  name  of  Sir  Percy 
Lennox,  but  who,  in  private  truth,  is  the  Spanish  king, 
Rodrigo,  thus  obliged  to  maintain  an  incognito  on  ac 
count  of  certain  hostilities  between  Spain  and  England. 
The  odious  nuptials  of  the  princess  with  the  Duke  of 
Ormond  proceed :  she  is  led,  a  submissive  victim,  to  the 
altar  ;  is  on  the  point  of  pledging  her  irrevocable  word ; 
when  the  priest  throws  off  his  sacred  robe,  discovers 
himself  to  be  Rodrigo,  and  plunges  a  dagger  into  the 


32  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

bosom  of  the  king.  Alethia  instantly  plucks  the  dagger 
from  her  father's  bosom,  throws  herself  into  Rodrigo's 
arms,  and  kills  herself.  Rodrigo  flies  to  a  cavern, 
renounces  England,  Spain,  and  his  royal  throne,  and 
devotes  himself  to  eternal  remorse.  The  queen  ends 
the  play  by  a  passionate  apostrophe  to  the  spirit  of  her 
daughter,  and  sinks  dead  on  the  floor. 

The  little  drama  lies  before  us,  a  curious  specimen  of 
the  prompt  talent  of  this  most  ingenious  child,  and  by  no 
means  more  incongruous  in  its  incidents  than  many  cur 
rent  dramas  by  veteran  and  experienced  playwrights. 

The  parts  were  now  distributed  and  soon  learnt; 
Margaret  drew  out  a  play-bill,  in  theatrical  style,  con 
taining  a  list  of  the  dramatis  persona),  and  issued  regu 
lar  tickets  of  admission.  The  piece  went  off  with 
universal  applause ;  Margaret  figuring,  in  a  long  train, 
as  the  princess,  and  killing  herself  in  a  style  that  would 
not  have  disgraced  an  experienced  stage  heroine. 

In  these,  and  similar  amusements,  her  time  passed 
happily  in  New  York,  for  it  was  the  study  of  the  intelli 
gent  and  amiable  relatives,  with  whom  she  sojourned, 
to  render  her  residence  among  them  as  agreeable  and 
profitable  as  possible.  Her  visit,  however,  was  pro 
tracted  much  beyond  what  was  originally  intended. 
As  the  summer  advanced,  the  heat  and  restraint  of  the 
city  became  oppressive;  her  heart  yearned  after  her 
native  home  on  the  Saranac ;  and  the  following  lines, 
written  at  the  time,  express  the  state  of  her  feelings — 

HOME. 

I  would  fly  from  the  city,  would  fly  from  its  care, 
To  my  own  native  plants  and  my  flowrets  so  fair ; 
To  the  cool  grassy  shade,  and  the  rivulet  bright, 
Which  reflects  the  pale  moon  on  its  bosom  of  light. 


BIOGRAPHY.  33 

Again  would  I^iew  the  old  mansion  so  dear, 

Where  I  sported  a  babe,  without  sorrow  or  fear ; 

I  would  leave  this  great  city  so  brilliant  and  gay, 

For  a  peep  at  my  home  on  this  fine  summer  day. 

I  have  friends  whom  I  love  and  would  leave  with  regret, 

But  the  love  of  my  home,  oh,  'tis  tenderer  yet ! 

There  a  sister  reposes  unconscious  in  death — 

'Twas  there  she  first  drew  and  there  yielded  her  breath — 

A  father  I  love  is  away  from  me  now — 

Oh  could  I  but  print  a  sweet  kiss  on  his  brow, 

Or  smooth  the  gray  locks,  to  my  fond  heart  so  dear, 

How  quickly  would  vanish  each  trace  of  a  tear  ! 

Attentive  I  listen  to  pleasure's  gay  call, 

But  my  own  darling  home,  it  is  dearer  than  all. 

At  length,  late  in  the  month  of  October,  the  travel 
lers  turned  their  faces  homewards ;  but  it  was  not  the 
"darling  home"  for  which  Margaret  had  been  long 
ing:  her  native  cottage  on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the 
Saranac.  The  wintry  winds  from  Lake  Champlain 
had  been  pronounced  too  severe  for  her  constitution, 
and  the  family  residence  had  been  reluctantly  changed 
to  the  village  of  Ballston.  Margaret  felt  this  change 
most  deeply.  We  have  already  shown  the  tender  as 
well  as  poetical  associations  that  linked  her  heart  to  the 
beautiful  home  of  her  childhood ;  a  presentiment  seemed 
to  come  over  her  mind  that  she  would  never  see  it 
more;  a  presentiment  unfortunately  prophetic.  She 
was  now  accustomed  to  give  prompt  utterance  to  her 
emotions  in  rhyme,  and  the  following  lines,  written  at 
the  time,  remain  a  touching  record  of  her  feelings — 

MY  NATIVE  LAKE. 

Thy  verdant  banks,  thy  lucid  stream, 
Lit  by  the  sun's  resplendent  beam, 


34  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Reflect  each  bending  tree  so  light 
Upon  thy  bounding  bosom  bright 
Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 
My  own,  by  beautiful  Champlain ! 

The  little  isles  that  deck  thy  breast, 

And  calmly  on  thy  bosom  rest, 

How  often,  in  my  childish  glee, 

I've  sported  round  them,  bright  and  free ! 

Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 

My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain ! 

How  oft  I've  watch'd  the  fresh'ning  shower 
Bending  the  summer  tree  and  flower, 
And  felt  my  little  heart  beat  high 
As  the  bright  rainbow  graced  the  sky. 
Could  I  but  see  thee  once  again, 
My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain ! 

And  shall  I  never  see  thee  more, 

My  native  lake,  my  much-loved  shore  ? 

And  must  I  bid  a  long  adieu, 

My  dear,  my  infant  home,  to  you  ? 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  once  again, 

My  own,  my  beautiful  Champlain  ? 

Still,  though  disappointed  in  not  returning  to  the 
Saranac,  she  soon  made  herself  contented  at  Ballston. 
She  was  at  home,  in  the  bosom  of  her  own  family,  and 
reunited  to  her  two  youngest  brothers,  from  whom  she 
had  long  been  separated.  A  thousand  little  plans  were 
devised  by  her,  and  some  few  of  them  put  in  execution, 
for  their  mutual  pleasure  and  improvement.  One  of 
the  most  characteristic  of  these  was  a  "  weekly  paper," 
issued  by  her  in  manuscript,  and  entitled  "  The  Juvenile 
Aspirant."  All  their  domestic  occupations  and  amuse 
ments  were  of  an  intellectual  kind.  Their  mornings 
were  spent  in  study;  the  evenings  enlivened  by  con- 


BIOGRAPHY.  35 

versation,  or  by  the  work  of  some  favourite  author, 
read  aloud  for  the  benefit  of  the  family  circle. 

As  the  powers  of  this  excitable  and  imaginative  little 
being  developed  themselves,  Mrs.  Davidson  felt  more 
and  more  conscious  of  the  responsibility  of  undertaking 
to  cultivate  and  direct  them ;  yet  to  whom  could  she 
confide  her  that  would  so  well  understand  her  character 
and  constitution?  To  place  her  in  a  boarding-school 
would  subject  her  to  increased  excitement,  caused  by 
emulation,  and  her  mind  was  already  too  excitable  for 
her  fragile  frame.  Her  peculiar  temperament  required 
peculiar  culture ;  it  must  neither  be  stimulated  nor 
checked ;  and  while  her  imagination  was  left  to  its 
free  soarings,  care  must  be  taken  to  strengthen  her 
judgment,  improve  her  mind,  establish  her  principles, 
and  inculcate  habits  of  self-examination  and  self-control. 
All  this,  it  was  thought,  might  best  be  accomplished 
under  a  mother's  eye ;  it  was  resolved,  therefore,  that 
her  education  should,  as  before,  be  conducted  entirely 
at  home.  "  Thus  she  continued,"  to  use  her  mother's 
words,  "  to  live  in  the  bosom  of  affection,  where  every 
thought  and  feeling  was  reciprocated.  I  strove  to  draw 
out  the  powers  of  her  mind  by  conversation  and  familiar 
remarks  upon  subjects  of  daily  study  and  reflection,  and 
taught  her  the  necessity  of  bringing  all  her  thoughts, 
desires  and  feelings  under  the  dominion  of  reason;  to 
understand  the  importance  of  self-control,  when  she 
found  her  inclinations  were  at  war  with  its  dictates. 
To  fulfil  all  her  duties  from  a  conviction  of  right, 
because  they  were  duties;  and  to  find  her  happiness 
in  the  consciousness  of  her  own  integrity,  and  the 
approbation  of  God.  How  delightful  was  the  task  of 
instructing  a  mind  like  hers !  She  seized  with  avidity 


36  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

upon  every  new  idea,  for  the  instruction  proceeded  from 
lips  of  love.  Often  would  she  exclaim,  *  Oh  mamma ! 
how  glad  I  am  that  you  are  not  too  ill  to  teach  me ! 
Surely  I  am  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world !'  She  had 
read  much  for  a  child  of  little  more  than  ten  years  of 
age.  She  was  well  versed  in  both  ancient  and  modern 
history,  (that  is  to  say,  in  the  courses  generally  pre 
scribed  for  the  use  of  schools,)  Blair,  Kaimes,  and 
Paley  had  formed  part  of  her  studies.  She  was  fami 
liar  with  most  of  the  British  poets.  Her  command  of 
the  English  language  was  remarkable,  both  in  conver 
sation  and  writing.  She  had  learned  the  rudiments  of 
French,  and  was  anxious  to  become  perfect  in  the 
language ;  but  I  had  so  neglected  my  duty  in  this 
respect  after  I  left  school,  that  I  was  not  qualified  to 
instruct  her.  A  friend,  however,  who  understood 
French,  called  occasionally  and  gave  her  lessons  for 
his  own  amusement ;  she  soon  translated  well,  and  such 
was  her  talent  for  the  acquisition  of  languages,  and 
such  her  desire  to  read  every  thing  in  the  original,  that 
every  obstacle  vanished  before  her  perseverance.  She 
made  some  advances  in  Latin,  also,  in  company  with 
her  brother,  who  was  attended  by  a  private  teacher; 
and  they  were  engaged  upon  the  early  books  of  Virgil, 
when  her  health  again  gave  way,  and  she  was  confined 
to  her  room  by  severe  illness.  These  frequent  attacks 
upon  a  frame  so  delicate  awakened  all  our  fears.  Her 
illness  spread  a  gloom  throughout  our  habitation,  for 
fears  were  entertained  that  it  would  end  in  a  pulmonary 
consumption."  After  a  confinement  of  two  months, 
however,  she  regained  her  usual,  though  at  all  times 
fragile,  state  of  health.  In  the  following  spring,  when 
she  had  just  entered  upon  the  eleventh  year  of  her  age, 


BIOGRAPHY.  37 

intelligence  arrived  of  the  death  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  T., 
who  had  been  resident  in  Canada.  The  blow  had  been 
apprehended  from  previous  accounts  of  her  extreme  ill 
ness,  but  it  was  a  severe  shock.  She  had  looked  up  to 
this  sister  as  to  a  second  mother,  and  as  to  one  who, 
from  the  precarious  health  of  her  natural  parent,  might 
be  called  upon  to  fulfil  that  tender  office.  She  was  one, 
also,  calculated  to  inspire  affection ;  lovely  in  person, 
refined  and  intelligent  in  mind,  still  young  in  years ;  and 
with  all  this,  her  only  remaining  sister !  In  the  following 
lines,  poured  out  in  the  fulness  of  her  grief,  she  touch- 
ingly  alludes  to  the  previous  loss  of  her  sister  Lucretia, 
so  often  the  subject  of  her  poetic  regrets,  and  of  the 
consolation  she  had  always  felt  in  still  having  a  sister 
to  love  and  cherish  her. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MY  SISTER  ANNA  ELIZA. 

While  weeping  o'er  our  sister's  tomb, 

And  heaving  many  a  heartfelt  sigh, 
And  while  in  youth's  bewitching  bloom, 

I  thought  not  that  thou  too  couldst  die. 

When  gazing  on  that  little  mound, 

Spread  o'er  with  turf,  and  flowers,  and  mould, 

I  thought  not  that  thy  lovely  form 
Could  be  as  motionless  and  cold. 

When  her  light,  airy  form  was  lost 

To  fond  affection's  weeping  eye ; 
I  thought  not  we  should  mourn  for  thee, 

I  thought  not  that  thou  too  couldst  die. 

Yes,  sparkling  gem  !  when  thou  wert  here, 

From  death's  encircling  mantle  free, 
Our  mourning  parents  wiped  each  tear, 

And  cried,  "  Why  weep  ?  we  still  have  thee." 


38  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Each  tender  thought  on  thee  they  turn'd, 
Each  hope  of  joy  to  thee  was  given, 

And,  dwelling  on  each  matchless  charm, 
They  half  forgot  the  saint  in  heaven. 

But  thou  art  gone,  for  ever  gone  ! 

Sweet  wanderer  in  a  world  of  wo ! 
Now,  unrestrain'd  our  grief  must  pour  ! 

Uncheck'd  our  mourning  tears  must  flow. 

How  oft  I've  press'd  my  glowing  lip 
In  rapture  to  thy  snowy  brow, 

And  gazed  upon  that  angel  eye, 

Closed  in  death's  chilling  slumber  now. 

While  tottering  on  the  verge  of  life, 
Thine  every  nerve  with  pain  unstrung, 

That  beaming  eye  was  raised  to  heaven, 
That  heart  to  God  for  safety  clung. 

And  when  the  awful  moment  came, 
Replete  with  trembling  hope  and  fear, 

Though  anguish  shook  thy  slender  frame, 
Thy  thoughts  were  in  a  brighter  sphere. 

The  wreath  of  light,  which  round  thee  play'd, 
Bore  thy  pure  spirit  to  the  skies ; 

With  thee  we  lost  our  brightest  gem, 
But  heaven  has  gain'd  a  glorious  prize. 

Oh  may  the  bud  of  promise  left, 
Follow  the  brilliant  path  she  trod, 

And  of  her  fostering  care  bereft, 
Still  seek  and  find  his  mother's  God. 

But  he,  the  partner  of  her  life, 

Who  shared  her  joy  and  soothed  her  wo, 

How  can  I  heal  his  broken  heart  ? 
How  bid  his  sorrow  cease  to  flow  ? 


BIOGRAPHY.  39 

It's  only^time  those  wounds  can  heal ; 

Time,  from  whose  piercing  pangs  alone, 
The  poignancy  of  grief  can  steal, 

And  hush  the  heart's  convulsive  moan. 

To  parry  the  effect  of  this  most  afflicting  blow, 
Margaret  was  sent  on  a  visit  to  New  York,  where  she 
passed  a  couple  of  months  in  the  society  of  affectionate 
and  intelligent  friends,  and  returned  home  in  June, 
recruited  in  health  and  spirits.  The  sight  of  her  mo 
ther,  however,  though  habituated  to  sorrow  and  suffer 
ing,  yet  bowed  down  by  her  recent  bereavement,  called 
forth  her  tenderest  sympathies ;  and  we  consider  it  as 
illustrating  the  progress  of  the  intellect  and  the  history 
of  the  heart  of  this  most  interesting  child,  to  insert 
another  effusion  called  forth  by  this  domestic  calamity : 

TO  MY  MOTHER  OPPRESSED  WITH  SORROW. 

Weep,  oh  my  mother  !  I  will  bid  thee  weep ! 
For  grief  like  thine  requires  the  aid  of  tears ; 
But  oh,  I  would  not  see  thy  bosom  thus 
Bow'd  down  to  earth,  with  anguish  so  severe  ! 
I  would  not  see  thine  ardent  feelings  crush'd, 
Deaden'd  to  all  save  sorrow's  thrilling  tone, 
Like  the  pale  flower,  which  hangs  its  drooping  head 
Beneath  the  chilling  blasts  of  stern  ^Eolus ! 
Oh  I  have  seen  that  brow  with  pleasure  flush'd, 
The  lightening  smile  around  it  brightly  playing, 
And  the  dark  eyelids  trembling  with  delight — 
But  now  how  changed ! — thy  downcast  eye  is  bent, 
With  heavy,  thoughtful  glances,  on  the  ground, 
And  oh  how  quickly  starts  the  tear-drop  there  ! 
It  is  not  age  which  dims  its  wonted  fire, 
Or  plants  his  lilies  on  thy  pallid  cheek, 
But  sorrow,  keenest,  darkest,  biting  sorrow  ! 
When  love  would  seek  to  lead  thy  heart  from  grief, 
And  fondly  pleads  one  cheering  look  to  view, 


40  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

A  sad,  a  faint  sad  smile  one  instant  gleams 

Athwart  the  brow  where  sorrow  sits  enshrined, 

Brooding  o'er  ruins  of  what  once  was  fair ; 

But  like  departing  sunset,  as  it  throws 

One  farewell  shadow  o'er  the  sleeping  earth, 

(So  soon  in  sombre  twilight  to  be  wrapt,) 

Thus,  thus  it  fades !  and  sorrow  more  profound 

Dwells  on  each  feature  where  a  smile,  so  cold, 

It  scarcely  might  be  called  the  mockery 

Of  cheerful  peace,  but  just  before  had  been. 

Long  years  of  suffering,  brighten'd  not  by  joy, 

Death  and  disease,  fell  harbinger  of  wo, 

Must  leave  their  impress  on  the  human  face, 

And  dim  the  fire  of  youth,  the  glow  of  pride ; 

But  oh  my  mother !  mourn  not  thus  for  Aer, 

The  rose,  just  blown,  transplanted  to  its  home, 

Nor  weep  that  her  angelic  soul  has  found 

A  resting-place  with  God. 

Oh  let  the  eye  of  heaven-born  faith  disperse 

The  dark'ning  mists  of  earthly  grief,  and  pierce 

The  clouds  which  shadow  dull  mortality ! 

Gaze  on  the  heaven  of  glory  crown'd  with  light, 

Where  rests  thine  own  sweet  child  with  radiant  brow, 

In  the  same  voice  which  charm'd  her  father's  halls, 

Chanting  sweet  anthems  to  her  Maker's  praise ; 

And  watching  with  delight  the  gentle  buds 

Which  she  had  lived  to  mourn ;  watching  thine  own, 

My  mother !  the  soft  unfolding  blossoms, 

Which,  ere  the  breath  of  earthly  sin  could  taint, 

Departed  to  their  Saviour ;  there  to  wait 

For  thy  fond  spirit  in  the  home  of  bliss ! 

The  angel  babes  have  found  a  second  mother ; 

But  when  thy  soul  shall  pass  from  earth  away, 

The  little  cherubs  then  shall  cling  to  thee, 

And  their  sweet  guardian  welcome  thee  with  joy, 

Protector  of  their  helpless  infancy, 

Who  taught  them  how  to  reach  that  happy  home. 

Oh  think  of  this,  and  let  one  heartfelt  smile 

Illume  the  face  so  long  estranged  from  joy; 

But  may  it  rest  not  on  thy  brow  alone, 

But  shed  a  cheering  influence  o'er  thy  heart, 


BIOGRAPHY.  41 

Too  sweet  to  be  forgotten  L    Though  thy  loved 

And  beautiful  are  fled  from  earth  away, 

Still  there  are  those  who  love  thee — who  would  live 

With  thee  alone — who  weep  or  smile  with  thee. 

Think  of  thy  noble  sons,  and  think  of  her 

Who  prays  thee  to  be  happy  in  the  hope 

Of  meeting  those  in  heaven  who  loved  thee  here, 

And  training  those  on  earth,  that  they  may  live 

A  band  of  saints  with  thee  in  Paradise. 

The  regular  studies  of  Margaret  were  now  resumed, 
and  her  mother  found,  in  attending  to  her  instruction,  a 
relief  from  the  poignancy  of  her  afflictions.  Margaret 
always  enjoyed  the  country,  and  in  fine  weather  indulged 
in  long  rambles  in  the  woods,  accompanied  by  some 
friend,  or  attended  by  a  faithful  servant  woman.  When 
in  the  house,  the  versatility  of  her  talents,  her  constitu 
tional  vivacity,  and  an  aptness  at  coining  occupation 
and  amusement  out  of  the  most  trifling  incident,  perpe 
tually  relieved  the  monotony  of  domestic  life ;  while 
the  faint  gleam  of  health  that  occasionally  flitted  across 
her  cheek,  beguiled  the  anxious  forebodings  that  had 
been  indulged  concerning  vher.  "A  strong  hope  was 
rising  in  my  heart,"  says  her  mother,  "  that  our  frail, 
delicate  blossom  would  continue  to  flourish,  and  that  it 
was  possible  I  might  live  to  behold  the  perfection  of  its 
beauty !  Alas !  how  uncertain  is  every  earthly  pros 
pect!  Even  then  the  canker  was  concealed  within  the 
bright  bud,  which  was  eventually  to  destroy  its  loveli 
ness  !  About  the  last  of  December  she  was  again 
seized  with  a  liver  complaint,  which,  by  sympathy, 
affected  her  lungs,  and  again  awakened  all  our  fears. 
She  was  confined  to  her  bed,  and  it  was  not  until 
March  that  she  was  able  to  set  up  and  walk  about  her 
room.  The  confinement  then  became  irksome,  but  her 

4 


42  MISS  MARGARET  DAVTDSON. 

kind  and  skilful  physician  had  declared  that  she  must 
not  be  permitted  to  venture  out  until  mild  weather  in 
April."  During  this  fit  of  illness  her  mind  had  remained 
in  an  unusual  state  of  inactivity ;  but  with  the  opening 
of  spring  and  the  faint  return  of  health,  it  broke  forth 
with  a  brilliancy  and  a  restless  excitability  that  asto 
nished  and  alarmed.  "  In  conversation,"  says  her  mo 
ther,  "  her  sallies  of  wit  were  dazzling.  She  composed 
and  wrote  incessantly,  or  rather  would  have  done  so, 
had  I  not  interposed  my  authority  to  prevent  this 
unceasing  tax  upon  both  her  mental  and  physical 
strength.  Fugitive  pieces  were  produced  every  day, 
such  as  <  The  Shunamite,'  *  Bclshazzar's  Feast/  «  The 
Nature  of  Mind,'  i  Boabdil  el  Chico/  &c.  She  seemed 
to  exist  only  in  the  regions  of  poetry."  We  cannot 
help  thinking  that  these  moments  of  intense  poetical 
exaltation  sometimes  approached  to  delirium,  for  we 
are  told  by  her  mother  that  "  the  image  of  her  departed 
sister  Lucretia  mingled  in  all  her  aspirations ;  the  holy 
elevation  of  Lucretia's  character  had  taken  deep  hold 
of  her  imagination,  and  in  her  moments  of  enthusiasm 
she  felt  that  she  held  close  and  intimate  communion 
with  her  beatified  spirit." 

This  intense  mental  excitement  continued  after  she 
was  permitted  to  leave  her  room,  and  her  application  to 
her  books  and  papers  was  so  eager  and  almost  impas 
sioned,  that  it  was  found  expedient  again  to  send  her  on 
an  excursion.  A  visit  to  some  relatives,  and  a  sojourn 
among  the  beautiful  scenery  of  the  Mohawk  river,  had 
a  salutary  effect ;  but  on  returning  home  she  was  again 
attacked  with  alarming  indisposition,  which  confined  her 
to  her  bed. 

"  The  struggle  between  nature  and  disease,"  says  her 


BIOGRAPHY.  43 

mother,  "was  for*a  time  doubtful;  she  was,  however, 
at  length  restored  to  us.  With  returning  health,  her 
mental  labours  were  resumed.  I  reasoned  and  entreat 
ed,  but  at  last  became  convinced  that  my  only  way  was 
to  let  matters  take  their  course.  If  restrained  in  her 
favourite  pursuits,  she  was  unhappy.  To  acquire  useful 
knowledge  was  a  motive  sufficient  to  induce  her  to  sur 
mount  all  obstacles.  I  could  only  select  for  her  a  course 
of  calm  and  quiet  reading,  which,  while  it  furnished  real 
food  for  the  mind,  would  compose  rather  than  excite  the 
imagination.  She  read  much  and  wrote  a  great  deal. 
As  for  myself,  I  lived  in  a  state  of  constant  anxiety  lest 
these  labours  should  prematurely  destroy  this  delicate 
bud." 

In  the  autumn  of  1835,  Dr.  Davidson  made  arrange 
ments  to  remove  his  family  to  a  rural  residence  near 
New  York,  pleasantly  situated  on  the  banks  of  the 
Sound,  or  East  River,  as  it  is  commonly  called.  The 
following  extract  of  a  letter  from  Margaret  to  Moss 
Kent,  Esq.,*  will  show  her  anticipations  and  plans  on 
this  occasion. 

*  This  gentleman  was  an  early  and  valued  friend  of  the  Davidson 
family,  and  is  honourably  mentioned  by  Mr.  Morse  for  the  interest  he 
took  in  the  education  of  Lucretia.  The  notice  of  Mr.  Morse,  however, 
leaves  it  to  be  supposed  that  Mr.  Kent's  acquaintance  with  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Davidson  was  brought  about  by  his  admiration  of  their  daughter's 
talents,  and  commenced  with  overtures  for  her  instruction.  The  fol 
lowing  extract  of  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Davidson  will  place  this  matter  in  a 
proper  light,  and  show  that  these  offers  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Kent,  and  the 
partial  acceptance  of  them  by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Davidson,  were  warranted 
by  the  terms  of  intimacy  which  before  existed  between  them.  "  I  had 
the  pleasure,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  to  know  Mr.  Kent  before  my  mar 
riage,  after  which  he  frequently  called  at  our  house  when  visiting  his 
sister,  with  whom  I  was  on  terms  of  intimacy.  On  one  of  those  occa 
sions  he  saw  Lucretia.  He  had  often  seen  her  when  a  child,  but  she 


44  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  September  20,  1835. 

"  We  shall  soon  leave  Ballston  for  New  York.  We 
are  to  reside  in  a  beautiful  spot  upon  the  East  River, 
near  the  Shot  Tower,  four  miles  from  town,  romanti 
cally  called  Ruremont.  Will  it  not  be  delightful? 
Reunited  to  father  and  brothers,  we  must,  we  will 
be  happy !  We  shall  keep  a  horse  and  a  little  plea 
sure  waggon,  to  transport  us  to  and  from  town.  But  I 
intend  my  time  shall  be  constantly  employed  in  my 
studies,  which  I  hope  I  shall  continue  to  pursue  at 
home.  I  wish  (and  mamma  concurs  in  the  opinion 
that  it  is  best,)  to  devote  this  winter  to  the  study  of  the 
Latin  and  French  languages,  while  music  and  dancing 
will  unbend  my  mind  after  close  application  to  those 
studies,  and  give  me  that  recreation  which  mother 
deems  requisite  for  me.  If  father  can  procure  private 
teachers  for  me,  I  shall  be  saved  the  dreadful  alternative 
of  a  boarding-school.  Mother  could  never  endure  the 
thought  of  one  for  me,  and  my  own  aversion  is  equally 

had  changed  much.  Her  uncommon  personal  beauty,  graceful  manners, 
and  superior  intellectual  endowments  made  a  strong  impression  on  him. 
He  conversed  with  her,  and  examined  her  on  the  different  branches 
which  she  was  studying,  and  pronounced  her  a  good  English  scholar. 
He  also  found  her  well  read,  and  possessing  a  fund  of  general  informa 
tion.  He  warmly  expressed  his  admiration  of  her  talents,  and  urged 
me  to  consent  that  he  should  adopt  her  as  his  daughter,  and  complete 
her  education  on  the  most  liberal  plan.  I  so  far  acceded  to  his  proposi 
tion  as  to  permit  him  to  place  her  with  Mrs.  Willard,  and  assured  him 
I  would  take  his  generous  offer  into  consideration.  Had  she  lived,  we 
should  have  complied  with  his  wishes,  and  Lucretia  would  have  been 
the  child  of  his  adoption.  The  pure  and  disinterested  friendship  of  this 
excellent  man  continued  until  the  day  of  his  death.  For  Margaret  he 
manifested  the  affection  of  a  father,  and  the  attachment  was  returned 
by  her  with  all  the  warmth  of  a  young  and  grateful  heart.  She  always 
addressed  him  as  her  dear  uncle  Kent." 


BIOGRAPHY.  45 

strong.  Oh !  my^dear  uncle,  you  must  come  and  see 
us.  Come  soon  and  stay  long.  Try  to  be  with  us  at 
Christmas.  Mother's  health  is  not  as  good  as  when  you 
was  here.  I  hope  she  will  be  benefited  by  a  residence 
in  her  native  city — in  the  neighbourhood  of  those  friends 
she  best  loves.  The  state  of  her  mind  has  an  astonish 
ing  effect  upon  her  health." 

The  following  letter  to  the  same  gentleman,  is  dated 
October  18,  1835.  "  We  are  now  at  Ruremont,  and  a 
more  delightful  place  I  never  saw.  The  house  is  large, 
pleasant,  and  commodious,  and  the  old-fashioned  style 
of  every  thing  around  it,  transports  the  mind  to  days 
long  gone  by,  and  my  imagination  is  constantly  upon 
the  rack  to  burden  the  past  with  scenes  transacted  on 
this  very  spot.  In  the  rear  of  the  mansion  a  lawn, 
spangled  with  beautiful  flowers,  and  shaded  by  spread 
ing  trees,  slopes  gently  down  to  the  river  side,  where 
vessels  of  every  description  are  constantly  spreading 
their  white  sails  to  the  wind.  In  front,  a  long  shady 
avenue  leads  to  the  door,  and  a  large  extent  of  beautiful 
undulating  ground  is  spread  with  fruit-trees  of  every 
description.  In  and  about  the  house  there  are  so  many 
little  nooks  and  byplaces,  that  sometimes  I  fancy  it  has 
been  the  resort  of  smugglers;  and  who  knows  but  I 
shall  yet  find  their  hidden  treasures  somewhere  ?  Do 
come  and  see  us,  my  dear  uncle;  but  you  must  come 
soon,  if  you  would  enjoy  any  of  the  beauties  of  the 
place.  The  trees  have  already  doffed  their  robe  of 
green,  and  assumed  the  red  and  yellow  of  autumn,  and 
the  paths  are  strewed  with  fallen  leaves.  But  there  is 
loveliness  even  in  the  decay  of  nature.  But  do,  do 
come  soon,  or  the  branches  will  be  leafless,  and  the  cold 


46  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

winds  will  prevent  the  pleasant  rambles  we  now  enjoy. 
Dear  mother  has  twice  accompanied  me  a  short  dis 
tance  about  the  grounds,  and  indeed  I  think  her  health 
has  improved  since  we  removed  to  New  York,  though 
she  is  still  very  feeble.  Her  mind  is  much  relieved, 
having  her  little  family  gathered  once  more  around  her. 
You  well  know  how  great  an  effect  her  spirits  have 
upon  her  health.  Oh !  if  my  dear  mother  is  only  in 
comfortable  health,  and  you  will  come,  I  think  I  shall 
spend  a  delightful  winter  prosecuting  my  studies  at 
home." 

"  For  a  short  time,"  writes  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  she 
seemed  to  luxuriate  upon  the  beauties  of  this  lovely 
place.  She  selected  her  own  room,  and  adjusted  all 
her  little  tasteful  ornaments.  Her  books  and  drawing 
implements  were  transported  to  this  chosen  spot.  Still 
she  hovered  around  me  like  my  shadow.  Mother's 
room  was  still  her  resting-place;  mother's  bosom  her 
sanctuary.  She  sketched  a  plan  for  one  or  two  poems 
which  were  never  finished.  But  her  enjoyment  was 
soon  interrupted. '  She  was  again  attacked  by  her  old 
enemy,  and  though  her  confinement  to  her  room  was  of 
short  duration,  she  did  not  get  rid  of  the  cough.  A 
change  now  came  over  her  mind.  Hitherto  she  had 
always  delighted  in  serious  conversation  on  heaven ; 
the  pure  and  elevated  occupations  of  saints  and  angels 
in  a  future  state  had  proved  a  delightful  source  of  con 
templation  ;  and  she  would  become  so  animated  that  it 
seemed  sometimes  as  if  she  would  fly  to  realize  her 
hopes  and  joys! — Now  her  young  heart  appeared  to 
cling  to  life  and  its  enjoyments,  and  more  closely  than  I 
had  ever  known  it.  <  She  was  never  ill.' — When  asked 


BIOGRAPHY.  47 

the  question,  '  Margaret,  how  are  you  T  <  Well,  quite 
well,'  was  her  reply,  when  it  was  obvious  to  me,  who 
watched  her  every  look,  that  she  had  scarcely  strength 
to  sustain  her  weak  frame.  She  saw  herself  the  last 
daughter  of  her  idolizing  parents — the  only  sister  of  her 
devoted  brothers!  Life  had  acquired  new  charms; 
though  she  had  always  been  a  happy,  light-hearted 
child." 

The  following  lines,  written  about  this  time,  show  the 
elasticity  of  her  spirit,  and  the  bounding  vivacity  of  her 
imagination,  that  seemed  to  escape,  as  in  a  dream,  from 
the  frail  tenement  of  clay  in  which  they  were  encased : 

STANZAS. 

Oh  for  the  pinions  of  a  bird, 

To  bear  me  far  away, 
Where  songs  of  other  lands  are  heard, 

And  other  waters  play  ! 

For  some  aerial  car,  to  fly 

On  through  the  realms  of  light, 
To  regions  rife  with  poesy, 

And  teeming  with  delight. 

O'er  many  a  wild  and  classic  stream 

In  ecstasy  I'd  bend, 
And  hail  each  ivy-cover'd  tower, 

As  though  it  were  a  friend. 

O'er  piles  where  many  a  wintry  blast 

Is  swept  in  mournful  tones, 
And  fraught  with  scenes  long  glided  past, 

It  shrieks,  and  sighs,  and  moans. 

Through  many  a  shadowy  grove,  and  round 

Full  many  a  cloister'd  hall, 
And  corridors,  where  every  step 

With  echoing  peal  doth  fall. 


48  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Enchanted  with  the  dreariness, 
And  awe-struck  with  the  gloom, 

I  would  wander,  like  a  spectre, 
'Mid  the  regions  of  the  tomb. 

And  memory  her  enchanting  vefl 
Around  my  soul  should  twine, 

And  superstition,  wildly  pale, 
Should  woo  me  to  her  shrine ; 

I'd  cherish  stiTl  her  witching  gloom, 
Half  shrinking  in  my  dread, 

But,  powerless  to  dissolve  the  spell, 
Pursue  her  fearful  tread, 


Oil  what  unmingled  pleasure  then 
My  youthful  heart  would  feel, 

As  o'er  its  thrilling  cords  each  thought 
Of  former  days  would  steal 

Of  centuries  in  oblivion  wrapt, 
Of  forms  which  long  were  cold, 

And  all  of  terror,  all  of  wo, 
That  history's  page  has  told. 

How  fondly  in  my  bosom 

Would  its  monarch,  Fancy,  reign, 
And  spurn  earth's  meaner  offices 

With  glorious  disdain. 

Amid  the  scenes  of  past  delight, 

Or  misery,  I'd  roam, 
Where  ruthless  tyrants  sway'd  in  might, 

Where  princes  found  a  home. 

Where  heroes  have  emvreathed  their  brows 

With  chivalric  renown, 
Where  beauty's  hand,  as  valour's  meed, 

Hath  twined  the  laurel  crown,, 


BIOGRAPHY.  49 

I'd  stancLwhere  proudest  kings  have  stood, 

Or  kneel  where  slaves  have  knelt, 
Till  wrapt  in  magic  solitude, 

I  feel  what  they  have  felt. 

Oh  for  the  pinions  of  a  bird, 

To  waft  me  far  away, 
Where  songs  of  other  lands  are  heard, 

And  other  waters  play. 

About  this  time  Mrs.  Davidson  received  a  letter  from 
the  English  gentleman  for  whom  Margaret,  when  quite 
a  child,  had  conceived  such  a  friendship,  her  dear  elder 
brother,  as  she  used  to  call  him.  The  letter  bore  testi 
mony  to  his  undiminished  regard.  He  was  in  good 
health ;  married  to  a  very  estimable  and  lovely  woman ; 
was  the  father  of  a  fine  little  girl,  and  was  at  Havana 
with  his  family,  where  he  kindly  entreated  Mrs.  David 
son  and  Margaret  to  join  them ;  being  sure  that  a  win 
ter  passed  in  that  mild  climate  would  have  the  happiest 
effect  upon  their  healths.  His  doors,  his  heart,  he 
added,  were  open  to  receive  them,  and  his  amiable 
consort  impatient  to  bid  them  welcome.  "  Margaret," 
says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "  was  overcome  by  the  perusal  of 
this  letter.  She  laughed  and  wept  alternately.  One 
moment  urged  me  to  go,  *  she  was  herself  well,  but 
she  was  sure  it  would  cure  me ;'  the  next  moment 
felt  as  though  she  could  not  leave  the  friends  to  whom 
she  had  so  recently  been  reunited.  Oh !  had  I  gone  at 
that  time,  perhaps  my  child  might  still  have  lived  to 
bless  me  !" 

During  the  first  weeks  of  Margaret's  residence  at 
Ruremont,  the  character  and  situation  of  the  place 
seized  powerfully  upon  her  imagination.  "  The  curious 
structure  of  this  old -fashioned  house,"  says  Mrs.  David- 


50  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

son,  "  its  picturesque  appearance,  the  varied  and  beau 
tiful  grounds  which  surrounded  it,  called  up  a  thousand 
poetic  images  and  romantic  ideas.  A  long  gallery,  a 
winding  staircase,. a  dark,  narrow  passage,  a  trap-door, 
large  apartments  with  massive  doors,  and  heavy  iron 
bars  and  bolts,  all  set  her  mind  teeming  with  recollec 
tions  of  what  she  had  read  and  imagined  of  old  castles, 
banditti,  smugglers,  &c.  She  roamed  over  the  place  in 
perfect  ecstasy,  peopling  every  part  with  images  of  her 
own  imagination,  and  fancying  it  the  scene  of  some 
foregone  event  of  dark  and  thrilling  interest."  There 
was,  in  fact,  some  palpable  material  for  all  this  spinning 
and  weaving  of  the  fancy.  The  writer  of  this  memoir 
visited  Ruremont  at  the  time  it  was  occupied  by  the 
Davidson  family.  It  was  a  spacious,  and  somewhat 
crazy  and  poetical-looking  mansion,  with  large  waste 
apartments.  The  grounds  were  rather  wild  and  over 
grown,  but  so  much  the  more  picturesque.  It  stood  on 
the  banks  of  the  Sound,  the  waters  of  which  rushed, 
with  whirling  and  impetuous  tides,  below,  hurrying  on 
to  the  dangerous  strait  of  Hell  Gate.  Nor  wras  this 
neighbourhood  without  its  legendary  tales.  These  wild 
and  lonely  shores  had,  in  former  times,  been  the  resort 
of  smugglers  and  pirates.  Hard  by  this  very  place 
stood  the  country  retreat  of  Ready  Money  Prevost,  of 
dubious  and  smuggling  memory,  with  his  haunted  tomb, 
in  which  he  was  said  to  conceal  his  contraband  riches ; 
and  scarce  a  secret  spot  about  these  shores  but  had 
some  tradition  connected  with  it  of  Kidd  the  pirate  and 
his  buried  treasures.  All  these  circumstances  were 
enough  to  breed  thick-coming  fancies  in  so  imaginative 
a  brain,  and  the  result  was  a  drama  in  six  acts,  entitled 
"  The  Smuggler,"  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  at  Rure- 


BIOGRAPHY.  51 

mont  iii  the  old  tjme  of  the  province.  The  play  was 
written  with  great  rapidity,  and,  considering  she  was 
little  more  than  twelve  years  of  age,  and  had  never 
visited  a  theatre  but  once  in  her  life,  evinced  great 
aptness  and  dramatic  talent.  It  was  to  form  a  domestic 
entertainment  for  Christmas  holidays ;  the  spacious  back 
parlour  was  to  be  fitted  up  for  the  theatre.  In  planning 
and  making  arrangements  for  the  performance,  she 
seemed  perfectly  happy,  and  her  step  resumed  its 
wonted  elasticity,  though  her  anxious  mother  often 
detected  a  suppressed  cough,  and  remarked  a  hectic 
flush  upon  her  cheek.  "We  now  found,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  that  private  teachers  were  not  be  procured 
at  Ruremont,  and  I  feared  to  have  her  enter  upon  a 
course  of  study  which  had  been  talked  of,  before  we 
came  to  this  place.  I  thought  she  was  too  feeble  for 
close  mental  application,  while  she  was  striving,  by 
the  energies  of  her  mind  and  bodily  exertion,  (which 
only  increased  the  morbid  excitement  of  her  system,) 
to  overcome  disease,  that  she  feared  was  about  to  fasten 
itself  upon  her.  She  was  the  more  anxious,  therefore, 
to  enter  upon  her  studies ;  and  when  she  saw  solicitude 
in  my  countenance  and  manner,  she  would  fix  her  sweet 
sad  eyes  upon  my  face,  as  if  she  would  read  my  very 
soul,  yet  dreaded  to  know  what  she  might  find  written 
there.  I  knew  and  could  understand  her  feelings ;  she 
also  understood  mine ;  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  tacit 
compact  between  us  that  this  subject,  at  present,  was 
forbidden  ground.  Her  father  and  brothers  were  lulled 
into  security  by  her  cheerful  manner  and  constant 
assertion  that  she  was  well,  and  considered  her  cough 
the  effect  of  recent  cold.  My  opinion  to  the  contrary 
was  regarded  as  the  result  of  extreme  maternal  anxiety." 


52  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

She  accordingly  went  to  town  three  times  a  week,  to 
take  lessons  in  French,  music,  and  dancing.  Her  pro 
gress  in  French  was  rapid,  and  the  correctness  and 
elegance  of  her  translations  surprised  her  teachers. 
Her  friends  in  the  city,  seeing  her  look  so  well  and 
appear  so  sprightly,  encouraged  her  to  believe  that  air 
and  exercise  would  prove  more  beneficial  than  confine 
ment  to  the  house.  She  went  to  town  in  the  morning 
and  returned  in  the  evening  in  an  open  carriage,  with 
her  father  and  one  of  her  elder  brothers,  each  of 
whom  was  confined  to  his  respective  office  until  night. 
In  this  way  she  was  exposed  to*  the  rigours  of  an 
unusually  cold  season ;  yet  she  heeded  them  not,  but 
returned  home  full  of  animation  to  join  her  little 
brothers  in  preparations  for  their  holiday  fete.  Their 
anticipations  of  a  joyous  Christmas  were  doomed  to 
sad  disappointment.  As  the  time  approached,  two  of 
her  brothers  were  taken  ill.  One  of  these,  a  beautiful 
boy  about  nine  years  of  age,  had  been  the  favourite 
companion  of  her  recreations,  and  she  had  taken  great 
interest  in  his  mental  improvement.  "  Towards  the 
close  of  1835,"  says  her  mother,  "  he  began  to  droop; 
his  cheek  grew  pale,  his  step  languid,  and  his  bright 
eye  heavy.  Instead  of  rolling  the  hoop,  and  bounding 
across  the  lawn  to  meet  his  sister  on  her  return  from 
the  city,  he  drooped  by  the  side  of  his  feeble  mother, 
and  could  not  bear  to  be  parted  from  her  ;  at  length  he 
was  taken  to  his  bed,  and,  after  lingering  four  months, 
he  died.  This  was  Margaret's  first  acquaintance  with 
death.  She  witnessed  his  gradual  decay  almost  uncon 
sciously,  but  still  persuaded  herself  '  he  will,  he  must 
get  well !'  She  saw  her  sweet  little  playfellow  reclining 
upon  my  bosom  during  his  last  agonies ;  she  witnessed 


BIOGRAPHY.  53 

the  bright  glow  which  flashed  upon  his  long-faded 
cheek ;  she  beheld  the  unearthly  light  of  his  beautiful 
eye,  as  he  pressed  his  dying  lips  to  mine  and  exclaimed, 
*  Mother !  dear  mother !  the  last  hour  has  come  !'  Oh ! 
it  was  indeed  an  hour  of  anguish  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Its  effect  upon  her  youthful  mind  was  as  lasting  as  her 
life.  The  sudden  change  from  life  and  animation  to 
the  still  unconsciousness  of  death,  for  the  time  almost 
paralysed  her.  She  shed  no  tear,  but  stood  like  a 
statue  upon  the  scene  of  death.  But  when  her  eldest 
brother  tenderly  led  her  from  the  room,  her  tears 
gushed  forth — it  was  near  midnight,  and  the  first  thing 
that  aroused  her  to  a  sense  of  what  was  going  on 
around  her,  was  the  thought  of  my  bereavement,  and  a 
conviction  that  it  was  her  province  to  console  me." 

We   subjoin  a  record,   from    her  own   pen,   of  her 
feelings  on  this  lamentable  occasion. 

ON  THE  CORPSE  OF  MY  LITTLE  BROTHER  KENT. 

Beauteous  form  of  soulless  clay ! 

Image  of  what  once  was  life  ! 
Hush'd  is  thy  pulse's  feeble  play, 

And  ceased  the  pangs  of  mortal  strife. 

Oh !  I  have  heard  thy  dying  groan, 

Have  seen  thy  last  of  earthly  pain ; 
And  while  I  weep  that  thou  art  gone, 

I  cannot  wish  thee  here  again. 

For  ah !  the  calm  and  peaceful  smile 

Upon  that  clay-cold  brow  of  thine, 
Speaks  of  a  spirit  freed  from  sin, 

A  spirit  joyful  and  divine. 


54  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  thou  art  gone  !  and  this  cold  clay 

Is  all  that  now  remains  of  thee ; 
For  thy  freed  soul  hath  wing'd  its  way 

To  blessed  immortality. 

That  dying  smile,  that  dying  groan, 

I  never,  never  can  forget, 
Till  death's  cold  hand  hath  clasp'd  my  own, 

His  impress  on  my  brow  has  set. 

Those  low,  and  sweet,  and  plaintive  tones, 
Which  o'er  my  heart  like  music  swept, 

And  the  deep,  deathlike,  dulling  moans 
Which  from  thy  heaving  bosom  crept. 

Oh  !  thou  wert  beautiful  and  fair, 

Our  loveliest  and  our  dearest  one  ! 
No  more  thy  pains  or  joys  we  share, 

No  more — my  brother,  thou  art  gone. 

Thou  'rt  gone  !     What  agony,  what  wo 

In  that  brief  sentence  is  express'd ! 
Oh  that  the  burning  tears  could  flow, 

And  draw  this  mountain  from  my  breast ! 

The  anguish  of  the  mother  was  still  more  intense,  as 
she  saw  her  bright  and  beautiful  but  perishable  offspring 
thus,  one  by  one,  snatched  away  from  her.  "  My  own 
weak  frame,"  says  she,  "  was  unable  longer  to  sustain 
the  effects  of  long  watching  and  deep  grief.  I  had  not 
only  lost  my  lovely  boy,  but  I  felt  a  strong  conviction 
that  I  must  soon  resign  my  Margaret ;  or  rather,  that 
she  would  soon  follow  me  to  a  premature  grave. 
Although  she  still  persisted  in  the  belief  that  she  was 
well,  the  irritating  cough,  the  hectic  flush,  (so  often 
mistaken  for  the  bloom  of  health,)  the  hurried  beating 


BIOGRAPHY.  55 

of  the  heart,  and  the  drenching  night  perspirations 
confirmed  me  in  this  belief,  and  I  sank  under  this 
accumulated  load  of  affliction.  For  three  weeks  I 
hovered  upon  the  borders  of  the  grave,  and  when  I 
arose  from  this  bed  of  pain — so  feeble  that  I  could  not 
sustain  my  own  weight,  it  was  to  witness  the  rupture 
of  a  blood-vessel  in  her  lungs,  caused  by  exertions  to 
suppress  a  cough.  Oh !  it  was  agony  to  see  her  thus  ! 
I  was  compelled  to  conceal  every  appearance  of  alarm, 
lest  the  agitation  of  her  mind  should  produce  fatal 
consequences.  As  I  seated  myself  by  her,  she  raised 
her  speaking  eyes  to  mine  with  a  mournful,  inquiring 
gaze,  and  as  she  read  the  anguish  which  I  could  not 
conceal,  she  turned  away  with  a  look  of  despair.  She 
spoke  not  a  word,  but  silence,  still,  deathlike  silence, 
pervaded  the  apartment."  The  best  of  medical  aid 
was  called  in,  but  the  physicians  gave  no  hope ;  they 
considered  it  a  deep-seated  case  of  pulmonary  consump 
tion.  All  that  could  be  done  was  to  alleviate  the  symp 
toms,  and  protract  life  as  long  as  possible  by  lessening 
the  excitement  of  the  system.  When  Mrs.  Davidson 
returned  to  the  bedside,  after  an  interview  with  the 
physicians,  she  was  regarded  with  an  anxious,  search 
ing  look  by  the  lovely  little  sufferer,  but  not  a  question 
was  made.  Margaret  seemed  fearful  of  receiving  a 
discouraging  reply,  and  "  lay,  all  pale  and  still,  (except 
when  agitated  by  the  cough,)  striving  to  calm  the 
tumult  of  her  thoughts,"  while  her  mother  seated  her 
self  by  her  pillow,  trembling  with  weakness  and  sorrow. 
Long  and  anxious  were  the  days  and  nights  spent  in 
watching  over  her.  Every  sudden  movement  or  emo 
tion  excited  the  hemorrhage.  "  Not  a  murmur  escaped 
her  lips,"  says  her  mother,  "  during  her  protracted 


56  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

sufferings.  '  How  are  you,  love  ?  how  have  you  rested 
during  the  night  ?'  «  Well,  dear  mamma  ;  I  have  slept 
sweetly.'  I  have  been  night  after  night  beside  her 
restless  couch,  wiped  the  cold  dew  from  her  brow,  and 
kissed  her  faded  cheek  in  all  the  agony  of  grief,  while  she 
unconsciously  slept  on ;  or  if  she  did  awake,  her  calm 
sweet  smile,  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  heaven, 
has,  spite  of  my  reason,  lighted  my  heart  with  hope. 
Except  when  very  ill,  she  was  ever  a  bright  dreamer. 
Her  visions  were  usually  of  an  unearthly  cast:  about 
heaven  and  angels.  She  was  wandering  among  the 
stars ;  her  sainted  sisters  were  her  pioneers ;  her  cherub 
brother  walked  hand  in  hand  with  her  through  the 
gardens  of  paradise !  I  was  always  an  early  riser, 
but  after  Margaret  began  to  decline  I  never  disturbed 
her  until  time  to  rise  for  breakfast,  a  season  of  social 
intercourse  in  which  she  delighted  to  unite,  and  from 
which  she  was  never  willing  to  be  absent.  Often  when 
I  have  spoken  to  her  she  would  exclaim,  *  Mother,  you 
have  disturbed  the  brightest  visions  that  ever  mortal 
was  blessed  with  !  I  was  in  the  midst  of  such  scenes 
of  delight !  Cannot  I  have  time  to  finish  my  dream  V 
And  when  I  told  her  how  long  it  was  until  breakfast, 
'  It  will  do,'  she  would  say,  and  again  lose  herself  in 
her  bright  imaginings ;  for  I  considered  these  as  mo 
ments  of  inspiration  rather  than  sleep.  She  told  me  it 
was  not  sleep.  I  never  knew  but  one,  except  Margaret, 
who  enjoyed  this  delightful  and  mysterious  source  of 
happiness,  that  one  was  her  departed  sister  Lucretia. 
When  awaking  from  these  reveries,  an  almost  ethereal 
light  played  about  her  eye,  which  seemed  to  irradiate 
her  whole  face.  A  holy  calm  pervaded  her  manner, 
and  in  truth  she  looked  more  like  an  angel  who  had 


BIOGRAPHY.  57 

been  communing  with  kindred  spirits  in  the  world  of 
light,  than  any  thing  of  a  grosser  nature." 

How  truly  does  this  correspond  with  Milton's  exqui 
site  description  of  the  heavenly  influences  that  minister 
to  virgin  innocence — 

"  A  thousand  liv'ried  angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt ; 
And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear ; 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 
And  turn  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 
Till  all  be  made  immortal." 

Of  the  images  and  speculations  that  floated  in  her 
mind  during  these  half  dreams,  half  reveries,  we  may 
form  an  idea  from  the  following  lines,  written  on  one 
occasion  after  what  her  mother  used  to  term  her 
"  descent  into  the  world  of  reality." 

THE  JOYS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Oh  who  can  tell  the  joy  and  peace 

Which  souls  redeem'd  shall  know, 
When  all  their  earthly  sorrows  cease, 

Their  pride,  and  pain,  and  wo ! 
Who  may  describe  the  matchless  love 
Which  reigneth  with  the  saints  above  ? 

What  earthly  tongue  can  ever  tell 

The  pure,  unclouded  joy 
Which  in  each  gentle  soul  doth  swell, 

Unmingled  with  alloy, 
As,  bending  to  the  Lord  Most  High, 
They  sound  his  praises  through  the  sky  ? 
5 


58  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Through  the  high  regions  of  the  air, 

On  angel  wings,  they  glide, 
And  gaze  in  wondering  silence  there 

On  scenes  to  us  denied ; 
Their  minds  expanding  every  hour, 
And  opening  like  the  summer  flower. 

Though  not  like  them  to  fade  away, 
To  die,  and  bloom  no  more ; 

Beyond  the  reach  of  fell  decay, 
They  stand  in  light  and  power ; 

But  pure,  eternal,  free  from  care, 

They  join  in  endless  praises  there  ! 

When  first  they  leave  this  world  of  wo 
For  fair,  immortal  scenes  of  light, 

Angels  attend  them  from  below, 

And  upward  wing  their  joyful  flight ; 

Where,  fired  with  heavenly  rapture's  flame, 

They  raise  on  high  Jehovah's  name. 

O'er  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  it  peals, 
While  shouts  of  praise  unnumber'd  flow ; 

The  full,  sweet  notes  sublimely  swell, 
And  prostrate  angels  humbly  bow ; 

Each  harp  is  tuned  to  joy  above, 

Its  theme,  a  Saviour's  matchless  love. 

The  dulcet  voice,  which  here  below 

Charm'd  with  delight  each  listening  ear, 

Mix'd  with  no  lingering  tone  of  wo, 
Swelling  harmonious,  soft  and  clear, 

Will  sweetly  fill  the  courts  above, 

In  strains  of  heavenly  peace  and  love. 

The  brilliant  genius,  which  on  earth 
Is  struggling  with  disease  and  pain, 

Will  there  unfold  in  power  and  light, 
Nought  its  bright  current  to  restrain ; 

And  as  each  brilliant  day  rolls  on, 

'Twill  find  some  grace,  till  then  unknown. 


BIOGRAPHY.  59 

And  as  the  countless  years  flit  by, 

Their  minds  progressing  still, 
The  more  they  know,  these  saints  on  high 

Praise  more  His  sovereign  will ; 
No  breath  from  sorrow's  whirlwind  blast 
Around  their  footsteps  cast. 

From  their  high  throne  they  gaze  abroad 

On  vast  creation's  wondrous  plan, 
And  own  the  power,  the  might  of  God, 

In  each  resplendent  work  they  scan ; 
Though  sun  and  moon  to  nought  return, 
Like  stars  these  souls  redeem'd  shall  burn. 

Oh !  who  could  wish  to  stay  below, 

If  sure  of  such  a  home  as  this, 
Where  streams  of  love  serenely  flow, 

And  every  heart  is  filled  with  bliss  ? 
They  praise,  and  worship,  and  adore 
The  Lord  of  heaven  for  ever  more. 

During  this  dangerous  illness  she  became  acquainted 
with  Miss  Sedgwick.  The  first  visit  of  that  most 
excellent  and  justly  distinguished  person,  was  when 
Margaret  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  debility.  It  laid 
the  foundation  of  an  attachment  on  the  part  of  the 
latter,  which  continued  until  her  death.  The  visit  was 
repeated ;  a  correspondence  afterwards  took  place,  and 
the  friendship  of  Miss  Sedgwick  became  to  the  little 
enthusiast  a  source  of  the  worthiest  pride  and  purest 
enjoyment  throughout  the  remainder  of  her  brief  ex 
istence. 

At  length  the  violence  of  her  malady  gave  way  to 
skilful  remedies  and  the  most  tender  and  unremitting 
assiduity.  When  enabled  to  leave  her  chamber,  she 
rallied  her  spirits,  made  great  exertions  to  be  cheerful, 
and  strove  to  persuade  herself  that  all  might  yet  be 


60  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

well  with  her.  Even  her  parents,  with  that  singular 
self-delusion  inseparable  from  this  cruelly  flattering 
malady,  began  to  indulge  a  trembling  hope  that  she 
might  still  be  spared  to  them. 

In  the  month  of  July,  her  health  being  sufficiently 
re-established  to  bear  the  fatigues  of  travelling,  she  was 
taken  by  her  mother  and  eldest  brother  on  a  tour  to 
Dutchess  County  and  the  western  part  of  New  York. 
On  leaving  home,  she  wrote  the  following  lines,  expres 
sive  of  the  feelings  called  forth  by  the  events  of  the  few 
preceding  months,  and  of  a  foreboding  that  she  should 
never  return : 

FAREWELL  TO  RUREMONT. 

Oh !  sadly  I  gaze  on  this  beautiful  landscape, 
And  silent  and  slow  do  the  big  tear-drops  swell ; 

And  I  haste  to  my  task,  while  the  deep  sigh  is  breaking, 
To  bid  thee,  sweet  Ruremont,  a  lasting  farewell. 

Oh !  soft  are  the  breezes  which  play  round  thy  valley, 
And  warm  are  the  sunbeams  which  gild  thee  with  light, 

All  clear  and  serenely  the  deep  waves  are  rolling, 
The  sky  in  its  radiance  is  dazzlingly  bright. 

Oh  !  gayly  the  birds  'mid  thy  dark  vines  are  sporting, 
And,  heaven-taught,  pouring  their  gladness  in  song ; 

While  the  rose  and  the  lily  their  fair  heads  are  bending 
To  hear  the  soft  anthems  float  gently  along. 

Full  many  an  hour  have  I  bent  o'er  thy  waters, 

Or  watch'd  the  light  clouds  with  a  joy -beaming  eye, 

Till,  delighted,  I  long'd  for  eagle's  swift  pinions, 
To  pierce  the  full  depths  of  that  beautiful  sky. 

Though  wild  were  the  fancies  which  dwelt  in  my  bosom, 
Though  endless  the  visions  which  swept  o'er  my  soul, 

Indulging  those  dreams  was  my  dearest  enjoyment — 
Enjoyment  unmingled,  unchain'd  by  control ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  61 

But  each  garden  of  earth  has  a  something  of  sorrow, 

A  thorn  in  its  rose,  or  a  blight  in  its  breeze, 
Though  blooming  aiS  Eden,  a  shadow  hangs  o'er  thee, 

The  spirit  of  darkness,  of  pain,  of  disease ! 

Yes,  Ruremont !  thy  brow,  in  its  loveliness  deck'd, 

Is  entwined  with  a  fatal  but  beautiful  wreath, 
For  thy  green  leaves  have  shrunk  at  the  mourner's  cold  touch, 

And  thy  pale  flowers  have  wept  in  the  presence  of  death. 

Yon  violets,  which  bloom  in  their  delicate  freshness, 
Were  strew'd  o'er  the  grave  of  our  fairest  and  best ; 

Yon  roses,  which  charm  by  their  richness  and  fragrance, 
Have  wither'd  and  died  on  his  icy-cold  breast. 

The  soft  voice  of  spring  had  just  breathed  o'er  the  valley, 
The  sweet  birds  just  caroll'd  their  song  in  her  bower, 

When  the  angel  of  death  in  his  terror  swept  o'er  ust 
And  placed  in  his  bosom  our  fragile  young  flower. 

Thus,  Ruremont,  we  mourn  not  thy  beauties  alone, 
Thy  flowers  in  their  freshness,  thy  stream  in  its  pride, 

But  we  leave  the  loved  scene  of  our  mourning  and  tears, 
We  leave  the  dear  spot  where  our  cherish'd  one  died 

The  mantle  of  beauty  thrown  gracefully  o'er  thee 

Must  touch  a  soft  chord  in  each  delicate  heart ; 
But  the  tie  is  more  sacred  which  bids  us  deplore  thee, 

Endear'd  by  affliction,  'tis  harder  to  part. 

The  scene  of  enjoyment  is  ever  most  lovely, 

Where  blissful  young  spirits  dance  mirthful  and  glad ; 

But  when  sorrow  has  mingled  her  tears  with  our  pleasure, 
Our  love  is  more  tender,  our  parting  more  sad. 

How  mild  is  the  wing  of  this  delicate  zephyr, 

Which  fans  in  its  coolness  my  feverish  brow ! 
But  that  light  wing  is  laden  with  breezes  that  wither, 

And  check  the  warm  current  of  life  in  its  flow. 


62  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Why  blight  such  an  Eden,  oh  spirit  of  terror ! 

Which  swcepest  thy  thousands  each  hour  to  the  tomb  ? 
Why,  why  shouldst  thou  roam  o'er  this  beautiful  valley, 

And  mingle  thy  breath  with  the  rose's  perfume  ? 

The  sun  rises  bright  o'er  the  clear  dancing  waters, 

And  tinges  with  gold  every  light,  waving  tree, 
And  the  young  birds  are  singing  their  welcome  to  morning — 

Alas !  they  will  sing  it  no  longer  for  me ! 

The  young  buds  of  summer  their  soft  eyes  are  opening, 
The  wild  flowers  are  bending  the  pure  ripples  o'er ; 

But  I  bid  them  farewell,  and  niy  heart  is  nigh  breaking 
To  think  I  shall  see  them  and  tend  them  no  more. 

I  mark  yonder  path,  where  so  often  I've  wanderM, 
Yon  moss-covered  rock,  with  its  sheltering  tree, 

And  a  sigh  of  deep  sadness  bursts  forth  to  remember 
That  no  more  its  soft  verdure  shall  blossom  for  me. 

How  often  my  thoughts,  to  these  loved  scenes  returning, 
Shall  brood  o'er  the  past  with  its  joy  and  its  pain ; 

Till  waking  at  last  from  the  long,  pleasing  slumber, 
I  sigh  to  behold  thee,  thus  blooming,  again. 

The  little  party  was  absent  on  its  western  tour  about 
two  months.  "  Margaret,"  says  her  mother,  "  appeared 
to  enjoy  the  scenery,  and  every  thing  during  the  journey 
interested  her.  But  there  was  a  sadness  in  her  coun 
tenance,  a  pensiveness  in  her  manner,  unless  excited  by 
external  circumstances,  which  deeply  affected  me.  She 
watched  every  variation  in  my  countenance;  marked 
every  little  attention  directed  to  herself,  such  as  an 
alteration  in  her  diet,  dress,  exposure  to  the  changes  of 
weather,  yet  still  discovered  an  unwillingness  to  speak 
of  her  declining  health,  and  laboured  to  conceal  every 


BIOGRAPHY.  G3 

unfavourable  symptom  or  change  for  the  worse.  This, 
of  course,  imposed- upon  me  the  most  painful  restraint. 
How  heart-breaking  to  find  that  she  considered  my 
tongue  as  the  herald  of  mournful  tidings,  and  my  face 
as  the  mirror  of  evil  to  come.  How  true  that  self- 
deception  seems  to  be  an  almost  invariable  symptom 
attending  this  dreadful  complaint !  Margaret,  all  un 
conscious  of  the  rapid  strides  of  the  destroyer,  taught 
herself  to  believe  that  the  alarming  symptoms  of  her 
case  existed  only  in  the  imagination  of  her  too  anxious 
mother.  Yet  knowing  my  experience  in  these  matters, 
she  still  doubted  and  trembled  and  feared  to  ask,  lest  a 
confirmation  of  her  vague  apprehensions  should  be  the 
result.  She  avoided  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  subject 
of  her  disease  in  any  way ;  and  in  the  morbid  excite 
ment  of  her  mind  it  appeared  to  her  almost  like 
accusing  her  of  something  wrong  to  say  she  was  not 
well." 

The  following  letter  was  written  by  her  to  Miss 
Sedgwick,  after  her  arrival  in  Dutchess  County. 

"  Lithgow,  Dutchess  County. 

"  Happy  as  I  am,  my  dear  madam,  in  the  privilege 
of  writing  to  you,  I  cannot  permit  another  day  to  pass 
ere  I  inform  you  of  our  safe  arrival  at  one  of  the  most 
lovely  spots  in  this  beautiful  and  healthy  country.  Our 
passage  up  the  river  was  rather  tedious,  being  debarred 
the  pleasure  of  remaining  upon  deck,  but  this  privation 
was  counterbalanced  by  the  pleasure  of  a  few  moments' 
conversation  with  dear  brother,  who  was  permitted  to 
meet  us  when  the  boat  stopped  at  West  Point.  Arrived 
at  Poughkeepsie,  brother  M.  procured  a  private  car 
riage,  which  was  to  convey  us  to  the  end  of  our 


64  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

journey,  a  distance  of  twenty  miles.  The  drive  was 
delightful !  The  scenery  ever  changing,  ever  beautiful ! 
We  arrived  at  Lithgow  without  much  fatigue,  where  a 
hearty  welcome,  that  sweetest  of  cordials,  was  awaiting 
us.  Oh !  it  is  a  lovely  spot !  I  thought  Ruremont  the 
perfection  of  beauty!  but  here  I  find  the  flowers  as 
blooming,  the  birds  as  gay,  the  air  as  sweet,  and  the 
prospect  far  more  varied  and  extensive;  'tis  true  we 
have  lost  the  beautiful  East  River,  writh  its  crowd  of 
vessels  sweeping  gracefully  along,  but  here  are  hills 
crowned  with  the  richest  foliage,  valleys  sprinkled 
with  flowers,  and  \vatered  with  winding  rivulets;  and 
here,  what  we  prize  more  than  all,  a  mild,  salubrious 
air,  which  seems,  in  the  words  of  the  divine  poet,  "  to 
bear  healing  in  its  wings."  Dear  mother  bore  the 
fatigue  of  our  journey  better  than  we  anticipated ;  and 
although  I  do  not  think  she  is  permanently  better,  she 
certainly  breathes  more  freely,  and  seems  altogether 
more  comfortable  than  when  in  the  city.  Oh !  how 
sincerely  I  hope  that  a  change  of  air  and  scene  may 
raise  her  spirits  and  renovate  her  strength.  She  is  now 
in  the  midst  of  friends  whom  she  has  known  and  loved 
for  many  years  ;  and  surrounded  by  scenes  connected 
with  many  of  her  earliest  remembrances.  Farewell, 
my  dear  madam !  Please  give  my  love  to  your  dear 
little  nieces ;  and  should  you  have  the  leisure  and  incli 
nation  to  answer  this,  believe  me  your  letter  will  be  a 
source  of  much  gratification  to  your 

Highly  obliged  little  friend, 

M.  M.  DAVIDSON. 
Miss  CATHERINE  SEDGWICK. 
August,  1836." 


BIOGRAPHY.  65 

The  travellers  returned  to  Ruremont  in  September. 
The  tour  had  been  of  service  to  Margaret,  and  she 
endeavoured  to  persuade  herself  that  she  was  quite 
well.  If  asked  about  her  health,  her  reply  was,  that 
"  if  her  friends  did  not  tell  her  she  was  ill,  she  should 
not,  from  her  own  feelings,  suspect  it."  That  she  was, 
notwithstanding,  dubious  on  this  subject,  was  evident 
from  her  avoiding  to  speak  about  it,  and  from  the 
uneasiness  she  manifested  when  it  was  alluded  to.  It 
was  still  more  evident  from  the  change  that  took  place 
in  her  habits  and  pursuits;  she  tacitly  adopted  the 
course  of  conduct  that  had  repeatedly  and  anxiously, 
but  too  often  vainly,  been  urged  by  her  mother,  as 
calculated  to  allay  the  morbid  irritability  of  her  system. 
She  gave  up  her  studies,  rarely  indulged  in  writing  or 
drawing,  and  contented  herself  with  light  reading,  with 
playing  a  few  simple  airs  on  the  piano,  and  with  any 
other  trivial  mode  of  passing  away  the  time.  The 
want  of  her  favourite  occupations,  however,  soon  made 
the  hours  move  heavily  with  her.  Above  all  things, 
she  missed  the  exciting  exercise  of  the  pen,  against 
which  she  had  been  especially  warned.  Her  mother 
observed  the  listlessness  and  melancholy  that  were 
stealing  over  her,  and  hoped  a  change  of  scene  might 
banish  them.  The  airs  from  the  river,  too,  had  been 
pronounced  unfavourable  to  her  health ;  the  family, 
therefore,  removed  to  town.  The  change  of  residence, 
however,  did  not  produce  the  desired  effect.  She  be 
came  more  and  more  dissatisfied  with  herself,  and  with 
the  life  of  idleness,  as  she  considered  it,  that  she  was 
leading;  but  still  she  had  resolved  to  give  the  prescribed 
system  a  thorough  trial.  A  new  source  of  solicitude 
was  now  awakened  in  the  bosom  of  her  anxious  mother, 


66  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

who  read  in  her  mournfully  quiet  manner  and  submissive 
silence,  the  painful  effects  of  compliance  with  her  advice. 
There  was  not  a  murmur,  however,  from  the  lips  of 
Margaret,  to  give  rise  to  this  solicitude;  on  the  con 
trary,  whenever  she  caught  her  mother's  eye  fixed 
anxiously  and  inquiringly  on  her,  she  would  turn  away 
and  assume  an  air  of  cheerfulness. 

Six  months  had  passed  in  this  inactive  manner. 
"  She  was  seated  one  day  by  my  side,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  weary  and  restless,  and  scarcely  knowing 
wThat  to  do  with  herself,  when,  marking  the  traces  of 
grief  upon  my  face,  she  threw  her  arms  about  my 
neck,  and,  kissing  me,  exclaimed,  l  My  dear,  dear 
mother !'  *  What  is  it  affects  you  now,  my  child  T 
'  Oh !  I  know  you  are  longing  for  something  from  my 
pen !'  I  saw  the  secret  craving  of  the  spirit  that  gave 
rise  to  the  suggestion.  1 1  do  indeed,  my  dear,  delight 
in  the  effusions  from  your  pen,  but  the  exertion  will 
injure  you.'  *  Mamma,  I  must  write !  I  can  hold  out 
no  longer !  I  will  return  to  my  pen,  my  pencil,  and  my 
books,  and  shall  again  be  happy !'  I  pressed  her  to  my 
bosom,  and  cautioned  her  to  remember  she  was  feeble. 
*  Mother,'  exclaimed  she,  '  I  am  well !  I  wish  you  were 
only  as  well  as  I  am !'  r 

The  heart  of  the  mother  was  not  proof  against  these 
appeals :  indeed  she  had  almost  as  much  need  of  self- 
denial  on  this  subject  as  her  child,  so  much  did  she 
delight  in  these  early  blossomings  of  her  talent.  Mar 
garet  was  again  left  to  her  own  impulses.  All  the 
frivolous  expedients  for  what  is  usually  termed  kitting 
time  were  discarded  by  her  with  contempt ;  her  studies 
were  resumed ;  in  the  sacred  writings  and  in  the  pages 
of  history  she  sought  fitting  aliment  for  her  mind,  half 


BIOGRAPHY.  67 


famished  by  its  long  abstinence ;  her  poetical  vein  again 
burst  forth,  and  thp  following  lines,  written  at  the  time, 
show  the  excitement  and  elevation  of  her  feelings : 


EARTH. 

Earth  !  thou  hast  nought  to  satisfy 

The  cravings  of  immortal  mind ! 
Earth  !  thou  hast  nothing  pure  and  high, 

The  soaring,  struggling  soul  to  bind. 

Impatient  of  its  long  delay, 
The  pinion'd  spirit  fain  would  roam, 

And  leave  this  crumbling  house  of  clay, 
To  seek  above,  its  own  bright  home I 

The  spirit,  'tis  a  spark  of  light 

Struck  from  our  God's  eternal  throne, 

Which  pierces  through  these  clouds  of  night, 
And  longs  to  shine  where  once  it  shone ! 

Earth !  there  will  come  an  awful  day, 
When  thou  shalt  crumble  into  nought ; 

When  thou  shalt  melt  beneath  that  ray 

From  whence  thy  splendours  first  were  caught 

Quench'd  in  the  glories  of  its  God, 
Yon  burning  lamp  shall  then  expire ; 

And  flames,  from  heaven's  own  altar  sent, 
Shall  light  the  great  funereal  pyre. 

Yes,  thou  must  die  !  and  yon  pure  depths 
Back  from  thy  darken'd  brow  shall  roll ; 

But  never  can  the  tyrant  death 
Arrest  this  feeble,  trusting  soul. 

When  that  great  voice,  which  formM  thee  first, 
Shall  tell,  surrounding  world,  thy  doom, 

Then  the  pure  soul,  enchain'd  by  thee, 
Shall  rise  triumphant  o'er  thy  tomb. 


68  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then  on,  still  on,  the  unfetter'd  mind 

Through  realms  of  endless  space  shall  fly ; 

No  earth  to  dim,  no  chain  to  bind, 
Too  pure  to  sin,  too  great  to  die. 

Earth  !  thou  hast  nought  to  satisfy 
The  cravings  of  immortal  mind ! 

Earth !  thou  hast  nothing  pure  or  high, 
The  soaring,  struggling  soul  to  bind. 

Yet  is  this  never-dying  ray 

Caught  in  thy  cold,  delusive  snares, 

Cased  in  a  cell  of  mouldering  clay, 

And  bow'd  by  woes,  and  pain,  and  cares  ! 

Oh !  how  mysterious  is  the  bond 

Which  blends  the  earthly  with  the  pure, 

And  mingles  that  which  death  may  blight 
With  that  which  ever  must  endure ! 

Arise,  my  soul,  from  all  below, 
And  gaze  upon  thy  destined  home, 

The  heaven  of  heavens,  the  throne  of  God, 
Where  sin  and  care  can  never  come. 

Prepare  thee  for  a  state  of  bliss, 
Unclouded  by  this  mortal  veil, 

Where  thou  shalt  see  thy  Maker's  face, 
And  dews  from  heaven's  own  air  inhale. 

How  sadly  do  the  sins  of  earth 

Deface  thy  purity  and  light, 
That  thus,  while  gazing  at  thyself, 

Thou  shrink'st  in  horror  at  the  sight. 

Compound  of  weakness  and  of  strength, 
Mighty,  yet  ignorant  of  thy  power ! 

Loftier  than  earth,  or  air,  or  sea, 
Yet  meaner  than  the  lowliest  flower ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  69 

Soaring  towards  heaven,  yet  clinging  still 

To  earth,  by  many  a  purer  tie ! 
Longing  to  Ureathe  a  tender  air, 

Yet  fearing,  trembling  thus  to  die  ! 

She  was  soon  all  cheerfulness  and  enjoyment.  Her 
pen  and  her  pencil  were  frequently  in  her  hand;  she 
occupied  herself  also  with  her  needle  in  embroidery  on 
canvass,  and  other  fancy  work.  Hope  brightened  with 
the  exhilaration  of  her  spirits.  "  I  now  walk  and  ride, 
eat  and  sleep  as  usual,"  she  observes  in  a  letter  to  a 
young  friend,  "  and  although  not  well,  have  strong  hopes 
that  the  opening  spring,  which  renovates  the  flowers, 
and  fields,  and  streams,  will  revive  my  enfeebled  frame, 
and  restore  me  to  my  wonted  health."  In  these  moods 
she  was  the  life  of  the  domestic  circle,  and  these  moods 
were  frequent  and  long.  And  here  we  would  observe, 
that  though  these  memoirs,  which  are  furnished  princi 
pally  from  the  recollections  of  an  afflicted  mother,  may 
too  often  represent  this  gifted  little  being  as  a  feeble 
invalid  struggling  with  mortality,  yet  in  truth  her  life, 
though  a  brief,  was  a  bright  and  happy  one.  At  times 
she  was  full  of  playful  and  innocent  gaiety ;  at  others 
of  intense  mental  exaltation  ;  and  it  was  the  very  inten 
sity  of  her  enjoyment  that  made  her  so  often  indulge  in 
those  poetic  paroxysms,  if  we  may  be  allowed  the  ex 
pression,  which  filled  her  mother  with  alarm.  A  few 
weeks  of  this  intellectual  excitement  was  followed  by 
another  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the  lungs,  and  a 
long  interval  of  extreme  debility.  The  succeeding  win 
ter  was  one  of  vicissitude.  She  had  several  attacks  of 
bleeding  at  the  lungs,  which  evidently  alarmed  her  at 
the  time,  though  she  said  nothing,  and  endeavoured  to 
repress  all  manifestation  of  her  feelings.  If  taken  sud- 


70  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

denly,  she  instantly  resorted  to  the  sofa,  and,  by  a 
strong  effort,  strove  to  suppress  every  emotion.  With 
her  eyes  closed,  her  lips  compressed,  and  her  thin  pale 
hand  resting  in  that  of  her  anxious  mother,  she  seemed 
to  be  waiting  the  issue.  Not  a  murmur  would  escape  her 
lips,  nor  did  she  ever  complain  of  pain.  She  would  often 
say,  by  way  of  consolation,  to  her  mother,  "  Mamma, 
I  am  highly  favoured.  I  hardly  know  what  is  meant 
by  pain.  I  am  sure  I  never,  to  my  recollection,  have 
felt  it."  The  moment  she  was  able  to  set  up,  after  one 
of  these  alarming  attacks,  every  vestige  of  a  sick 
chamber  must  be  removed.  No  medicine,  no  cap,  no 
bed-gown,  no  loose  wrapper  must  be  in  sight.  Her 
beautiful  dark  hair  must  be  parted  on  her  broad,  high 
forehead,  her  dress  arranged  with  the  same  care  and 
neatness  as  when  in  perfect  health ;  indeed  she  studied 
to  banish  from  her  appearance  all  that  might  remind 
her  friends  that  her  health  was  impaired,  and,  if  pos 
sible,  to  drive  the  idea  from  her  own  thoughts.  Her 
reply  to  every  inquiry  about  her  health  was,  "Well, 
quite  well;  or  at  least  /  feel  so,  though  mother  con 
tinues  to  treat  me  as  an  invalid.  True  I  have  a  cold, 
attended  by  a  cough,  that  is  not  willing  to  leave  me ; 
but  when  the  spring  returns,  with  its  mild  air  and  sweet 
blossoms,  I  think  this  cough,  which  alarms  mother  so 
much,  will  leave  me." 

She  had,  indeed,  a  strong  desire  to  live;  and  the 
cause  of  that  desire  is  indicative  of  her  character. 
With  all  her  retiring  modesty,  she  had  an  ardent  desire 
for  literary  distinction.  The  example  of  her  sister 
Lucretia  was  incessantly  before  her;  she  was  her 
leading  star,  and  her  whole  soul  was  but  to  emulate 
her  soarings  into  the  pure  regions  of  poetry.  Her 


BIOGRAPHY.  71 

apprehensions  were  that  she  might  be  cut  off  in  the 
immaturity  of  her  ^powers.  A  simple,  but  most  touch 
ing  ejaculation,  betrayed  this  feeling,  as,  when  lying  on 
a  sofa,  in  one  of  those  alarming  paroxysms  of  her 
malady,  she  turned  her  eyes,  full  of  mournful  sweetness, 
upon  her  mother,  and,  in  a  low,  subdued  voice,  ex 
claimed,  "Oh!  my  dear,  dear  mother!  I  am  so  young!" 
We  have  said  that  the  example  of  her  sister  Lucretia 
was  incessantly  before  her,  and  no  better  proof  can  be 
given  of  it  than  in  the  following  lines,  written  at  this 
time,  which  breathe  the  heavenly  aspirations  of  her  pure 
young  spirit,  in  strains,  to  us,  quite  unearthly.  We  may 
have  read  poetry  more  artificially  perfect  in  its  struc 
ture,  but  never  any  more  truly  divine  in  its  inspiration. 

TO  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

My  sister !  With  that  thrilling1  word 

What  thoughts  unnumber'd  wildly  spring ! 

What  echoes  in  my  heart  are  stirr'd, 

While  thus  I  touch  the  trembling  string ! 

My  sister !  ere  this  youthful  mind 

Could  feel  the  value  of  thine  own  ; 
Ere  this  infantine  heart  could  bind, 

In  its  deep  cell,  one  look,  one  tone, 

To  glide  along  on  memory's  stream, 

And  bring  back  thrilling  thoughts  of  thee ; 

Ere  I  knew  aught  but  childhood's  dream, 
Thy  soul  had  struggled  and  was  free ! 

My  sister !  with  this  mortal  eye, 

I  ne'er  shall  see  thy  form  again ; 
And  never  shall  this  mortal  ear 

Drink  in  the  sweetness  of  thy  strain ! 


72  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Yet  fancy  wild  and  glowing  love 
Reveal  thee  to  my  spirit's  view, 

Enwreath'd  with  graces  from  above, 

And  deck'd  in  heaven's  own  fadeless  hue. 

Thy  glance  of  pure  seraphic  light 
Sheds  o'er  my  heart  its  sofl'ning  ray ; 

Thy  pinions  guard  my  couch  by  night, 
And  hover  o'er  rny  path  by  day. 

I  cannot  weep  that  thou  art  fled, — 
For  ever  blends  my  soul  with  thine ; 

Each  thought,  by  purer  impulse  led, 
Is  soaring  on  to  realms  divine. 

Thy  glance  unfolds  my  heart  of  hearts, 
And  lays  its  inmost  recess  bare  ; 

Thy  voice  a  heavenly  calm  imparts, 
And  soothes  each  wilder  passion  there. 

I  hear  thee  in  the  summer  breeze, 
See  thee  in  all  that's  pure  or  fair; 

Thy  whisper  in  the  murmuring  trees, 
Thy  breath,  thy  spirit  every  where. 

Thine  eyes,  which  watch  when  mortals  sleep, 
Cast  o'er  my  dreams  a  radiant  hue ; 

Thy  tears,  "  such  tears  as  angels  weep," 
Fall  nightly  with  the  glistening  dew. 

Thy  fingers  wake  my  youthful  lyre, 
And  teach  its  softer  strains  to  flow ; 

Thy  spirit  checks  each  vain  desire, 
And  gilds  the  low'ring  brow  of  wo. 

When  fancy  wings  her  upward  flight 
On  through  the  viewless  realms  of  air, 

Clothed  in  its  robe  of  matchless  light, 
I  view  thy  ransom'd  spirit  there ! 


BIOGRAPHY.  73 


Far  from  her  wild  delusive  dream?, 
It  leads  my-  raptured  soul  away, 

Where  the  pure  fount  of  glory  streams, 
And  saints  live  on  through  endless  day. 

When  the  dim  lamp  of  future  years 

Sheds  o'er  my  path  its  glimmering  faint, 

First  in  the  view  thy  form  appears, 
My  sister,  and  my  guardian  saint ! 

Thou  gem  of  light !  my  leading  star ! 

What  thou  hast  been,  I  strive  to  be ; 
When  from  the  path  I  wander  far, 

Oh  turn  thy  guiding  beam  on  me. 

Teach  me  to  fill  thy  place  below, 
That  I  may  dwell  with  thee  above ; 

To  soothe,  like  thee,  a  mother's  wo, 
And  prove,  like^thine,  a  sister's  love. 

Thou  wert  unfit  to  dwell  with  clay, 
For  sin  too  pure,  for  earth  too  bright ! 

And  death,  who  call'd  thee  hence  away, 
Placed  on  his  brow  a  gem  of  light ! 

A  gem,  whose  brilliant  glow  is  shed 
Beyond  the  ocean's  swelling  wave, 

Which  gilds  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  pours  its  radiance  on  thy  grave. 

When  day  hath  left  his  glowing  car, 
And  evening  spreads  her  robe  of  love  ; 

When  worlds,  like  travellers  from  afar, 
Meet  in  the  azure  fields  above ; 

When  all  is  still,  and  fancy's  realm 

Is  opening  to  the  eager  view, 
Mine  eye  full  oft,  in  search  of  thee, 

Roams  o'er  that  vast  expanse  of  blue. 
6 


74  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

I  know  that  here  thy  harp  is  mute, 

And  quench'd  the  bright  poetic  fire, 
Yet  still  I  bend  my  ear,  to  catch 

The  hymnings  of  thy  seraph  lyre. 

Oh !  if  this  partial  converse  now 

So  joyous  to  my  heart  can  be, 
How  must  the  streams  of  rapture  flow 

When  both  are  chainless,  both  arc  free  I 

When  borne  from  earth  for  evermore, 

Our  souls  in  sacred  joy  unite, 
At  God's  almighty  throne  adore, 

And  bathe  in  beams  of  endless  light ! 

Away,  away,  ecstatic  dream  ! 

I  must  not,  dare  not  dwell  on  thee ; 
My  soul,  immersed  in  life's  dark  stream, 

Is  far  too  earthly  to  be  free. 

Though  heaven's  bright  portal  were  unclosed, 

And  angels  wooed  me  from  on  high, 
Too  much  I  fear  my  shrinking  soul 

Would  cast  on  earth  its  longing  eye. 

* 

Teach  me  to  fill  thy  place  below, 

That  I  may  dwell  with  thee  above ; 
To  soothe,  like  thee,  a  mother's  wo, 

And  prove,  like  thee,  a  sister's  love. 

It  was  probably  this  trembling  solicitude  about  the 
duration  of  her  existence,  that  made  her  so  anxious, 
about  this  time,  to  employ  every  interval  of  her  pre 
carious  health  in  the  cultivation  of  her  mental  powers. 
Certain  it  is,  during  the  winter,  chequered  as  it  was 
with  repeated  fits  of  indisposition,  she  applied  herself  to 
historical  and  other  studies  with  an  ardour  that  often 
made  her  mother  tremble  for  the  consequences. 


BIOGRAPHY.  75 

The  following  letters  to  a  young  female  friend  were 
written  during  one^of  these  intervals. 

"New  York,  February  26,  1837. 

"  Notwithstanding  all  the  dangers  which  might  have 
befallen  your  letter,  my  dear  Henrietta,  it  arrived  safely 
at  its  resting-place,  and  is  now  lying  open  before  me, 
as  I  am  quietly  sitting,  this  chill  February  morning,  to 
inform  you  of  its  safe  arrival.  I  find  I  wras  not  mistaken 
in  believing  you  too  kind  to  be  displeased  at  my  remiss- 
ness  ;  and  I  now  hope  that  through  our  continued  inter 
course  neither  will  have  cause  to  complain  of  the  other's 
negligence. 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  am  always  willing  to  assign 
every  reason  but  that  of  forgetfulness  for  a  friend's 
silence.  Knowing  how  often  I  am  obliged  to  claim 
this  indulgence  for  myself,  and  how  often  ill  health 
prevents  me  from  writing  to  those  I  love,  I  am  the  more 
ready  to  frame  apologies  for  others ;  indeed  I  think  this 
spirit  of  charity  (if  so  I  may  call  it)  is  necessary  to  the 
happiness  of  correspondents,  and  as  I  am  sure  you  pos 
sess  it,  I  trust  we  shall  both  glide  quietly  along  without 
any  of  those  little  jars  which  so  often  interrupt  the 
purest  friendships.  And  now  that  my  dissertation  on 
letter-writing  is  at  an  end,  I  must  proceed  to  inform  you 
of  what  I  fear  will  be  a  disappointment,  as  it  breaks 
away  all  those  sweet  anticipations  expressed  in  your 
affectionate  letter.  Father  has  concluded  that  we  shall 
not  return  to  Plattsburgh  next  spring,  as  he  had  once 
intended ;  he  fears  the  effects  of  the  cold  winds  of  Lake 
Champlain  upon  mother  and  myself,  who  are  both  deli 
cate;  and  as  we  have  so  many  dear  friends  in  and 
about  the  city,  a  nearer  location  would  be  pleasanter 


76  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

to  us  and  to  them.  We  now  think  seriously  of  return 
ing  to  Ballston,  that  beautiful  little  village  where  we 
have  already  spent  two  delightful  years  ;  and  though  in 
this  case  I  must  relinquish  the  idea  of  visiting  my  dear 
*  old  home'  and  my  dear  young  friend,  hope  points  to  the 
hour  when  you  may  become  my  guest,  and  where  the 
charms  of  novelty  will  in  some  degree  repay-  us  for  the 
delightful  associations  and  remembrances  we  had  hoped 
to  enjoy.  But  I  cannot  help  now  and  then  casting  a 
backward  glance  upon  the  beautiful  scenes  you  describe, 
and  wishing  myself  with  you.  A  philosopher  would 
say,  *  Since  you  cannot  enjoy  what  you  desire,  turn  to 
the  pleasures  you  may  possess,  and  seek  in  them  conso 
lation  for  what  you  have  lost ;'  but  I  am  no  philosopher. 

******* 
"  I  will  endeavour  to  answer  your  question  about 
Mrs.  Hemans.  I  have  read  several  lives  of  this  dis 
tinguished  poetess,  by  different  authors,  and  in  all  of 
them  find  something  new  to  admire  in  her  character 
and  venerate  in  her  genius !  She  was  a  woman  of  deep 
feeling,  lively  fancy,  and  acute  sensibilities ;  so  acute, 
indeed,  as  to  have  formed  her  chief  unhappiness  through 
life.  She  mingles  her  own  feelings  with  her  poems  so 
well,  that  in  reading  them  you  read  her  character.  But 
there  is  one  thing  I  have  often  remarked :  the  mind  soon 
wearies  in  perusing  many  of  her  pieces  at  once.  She 
expresses  those  sweet  sentiments  so  often,  and  intro 
duces  the  same  stream  of  beautiful  ideas  so  constantly, 
that  they  sometimes  degenerate  into  monotony.  I  know 
of  no  higher  treat  than  to  read  a  few  of  her  best  pro 
ductions,  and  comment  upon  and  feel  their  beauties; 
but  perusing  her  volume  is  to  me  like  listening  to  a 
strain  of  sweet  music  repeated  over  and  over  again, 


BIOGRAPHY.  77 

until  it  becomes  so  familiar  to  the  ear,  that  it  loses  the 
charm  of  variety.  ^ 

"Now,  dear  H.,  is  not  this  presumption  in  me,  to 
criticise  so  exquisite  an  author  ?  But  you  desired  my 
opinion,  and  I  have  given  it  to  you  without  reserve. 

"  You  desire  me  to  send  you  an  original  poem  for 
yourself.  Now,  my  dear  Hetty,  this  is  something  I 
am  not  at  present  able  to  do  for  any  of  my  friends, 
writing  being  supposed  quite  injurious  to  persons  with 
weak  lungs.  And  I  have  still  another  reason.  You 
say  the  effect  of  conveying  feelings  from  the  heart  and 
recording  them  upon  paper,  seems  to  deprive  them  of 
half  their  warmth  and  ardour !  Now,  my  dear  friend, 
would  not  the  effect  of  forming  them  into  verse  seem  to 
render  them  still  less  sincere  1  Is  not  plain  prose,  as  it 
slides  rapidly  from  the  pen,  more  apt  to  speak  the  feel 
ings  of  the  heart,  than  when  an  hour  or  two  is  spent  in 
giving  them  rhyme  and  measure,  and  all  the  attributes 
of  poetry  ?******* 

TO    THE    SAME. 

"  New  York,  April  2d,  1837. 

"  About  an  hour  since,  my  dear  Henrietta,  I  received 
your  token  of  remembrance,  and  commence  my  answer 
with  an  act  of  obedience  to  your  sovereign  will ;  but  I 
fear  you  will  repent  when  too  late,  and  wrhile  nodding 
over  the  closely  written  sheet,  and  peering  impatiently 
into  each  crowded  corner,  you  will  secretly  wish  you 
had  allowed  my  pen  to  commence  its  operations  at  a 
more  respectful  distance  from  the  top  of  the  page. 
However,  the  request  was  your  own;  I  obey  like  an 
obedient  friend,  and  you  must  abide  the  consequences 


78  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

of  your  rash  demand.  Should  the  first  glance  at  my 
well-filled  sheet  be  followed  by  a  yawn,  or  its  last  word 
be  welcomed  with  a  smile,  you  must  blame  your  own 
imprudence  in  bringing  down  upon  your  luckless  head 
the  accumulated  nothings  of  a  scribbler  like  myself.  It 
is  indeed  true  that  we  shall  not  return  to  Plattsburgh ; 
and  much  as  I  long  to  revisit  the  home  of  my  infancy, 
and  the  friends  of  my  earliest  remembrance,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  relinquish  the  pleasure  in  reality,  though 
fancy,  unshackled  by  earth,  shall  direct  her  pinions  to 
the  north,  and  linger,  delighted,  on  the  beautiful  banks 
of  the  Champlain!  Methinks  I  hear  you  exclaim, 
with  impatience,  'Fancy!  what  is  it?  I  long  for  some 
thing  more  substantial.'  So  do  I,  ma  chere,  but  since  I 
cannot  hope  to  behold  my  dear  native  village  and  its 
dear  inhabitants,  with  other  eyes  than  those  of  fancy,  I 
will  e'er  employ  them  to  the  best  of  my  ability.  You 
may  be  sure  we  do  not  prefer  the  confined  and  murky 
atmosphere  of  the  city  to  the  pure  and  health-giving 
breezes  of  the  country ;  far  from  it — we  are  already 
preparing  to  remove,  as  soon  as  the  mild  influence  of 
spring  has  prevailed  over  the  chilling  blasts  which  we 
still  hear  whistling  around  us ;  and  gladly  shall  we 
welcome  the  day  that  will  release  us  from  our  bond 
age.  But  there  is  some  drawback  to  every  pleasure — 
some  bitter  drop  in  almost  every  cup  of  enjoyment ; 
and  we  shall  taste  this  most  keenly  when  we  bid  fare 
well  to  the  delightful  circle  of  friends  who  have  cheered 
us  during  the  solitude  and  confinement  of  this  dreary 
wrinter.  The  New  York  air,  so  far  from  agreeing  with 
us,  has  deprived  us  of  every  enjoyment  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  our  own  walls,  and  it  will  be  hard  to 
leave  those  friends  who  have  taught  us  to  forget  the 


BIOGRAPHY.  79 

privations  of  ill  health  in  the  pleasure  of  their  society. 
We  have  chosen  Ballston  for  our  temporary  home,  from 
the  hope  of  seeing  them  oftener  there  than  we  could  in 
a  secluded  to\vn,  and  because  pure  air,  medicinal 
waters,  and  good  society  have  all  combined  to  render 
it  a  delightful  country  residence;  yet  with  all  these 
advantages,  it  can  never  possess  half  the  charms  of  my 
dear  old  home ! 


That  dear  old  home,  where  pass'd  my  childish  years, 
When  fond  affection  wiped  my  infant  tears ! 
Where  first  I  learn'd  from  whence  my  blessings  came, 
And  lisp'd,  in  faltering  tones,  a  mother's  name  ! 

That  dear  old  home,  where  memory  fondly  clings, 
Where  eager  fancy  spreads  her  soaring  wings ; 
Around  whose  scenes  my  thoughts  delight  to  stray, 
And  pass  the  hours  in  pleasing  dreams  away  ! 

Oh,  shall  I  ne'er  behold  thy  waves  again, 

My  native  lake,  my  beautiful  Champlain  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  above  thy  ripples  bend 

In  sweet  communion  with  my  childhood's  friend  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  behold  thy  rolling  wave, 
The  patriot's  cradle,  and  the  warrior's  grave  ? 
Thy  mountains,  tinged  with  daylight's  parting  glow  ? 
Thy  islets,  mirror'd  in  the  stream  below  ? 

Back !  back ! — thou  present,  robed  in  shadows  lie, 
And  rise,  thou  past,  before  my  raptured  eye  ! 
Fancy  shall  gild  the  frowning  lapse  between, 
And  memory's  hand  shall  paint  the  glowing  scene ! 

Lo !  how  the  view  beneath  her  pencil  grows  ! 
The  flow'ret  blooms,  the  winding  streamlet  flows ; 
With  former  friends  I  trace  my  footsteps  o'er, 
And  muse,  delighted,  on  my  own  green  shore ! 


80  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Alas !  it  fades — the  fairy  dream  is  past ! 
Dissolved  the  veil  by  sportive  fancy  cast. 
Oh  why  should  thus  our  brightest  dreams  depart, 
And  scenes  illusive  cheat  the  longing  heart  ? 

Where'er  through  future  life  my  steps  may  roam, 
I  ne'er  shall  find  a  spot  like  thee,  my  home  ; 
With  all  my  joys  the  thought  of  thee  shall  blend, 
And,  join'd  with  thee,  shall  rise  my  childhood's  friend. 

"  Mother  is  most ,  truly  alive  to  all  these  feelings. 
During  our  first  year  in  New  York,  we  were  living  a 
few  miles  from  the  city,  at  one  of  the  loveliest  situa 
tions  in  the  world !  I  think  I  have  seldom  seen  a 
sweeter  spot ;  but  all  its  beauties  could  not  divert  her 
thoughts  from  our  own  dear  home,  and  despite  the 
superior  advantages  we  there  enjoyed,  she  wept  to  enjoy 
it  again.  But  enough  of  this ;  if  I  suffer  my  fancy  to 
dwell  longer  upon  these  loved  scenes,  I  shall  scribble 
over  my  whole  sheet,  and,  leaving  out  what  I  most  \vish 
to  say,  fill  it  with  nothing  but  '  Home,  home,  sweet, 
sweet  home !'  as  the  song  goes.  *  *  *  * 

June,  1837. 

"  Now  for  the  mighty  theme  upon  which  I  scarcely 
dare  to  dwell :  my  visit  to  Plattsburgh  !  Yes,  my  dear 
H.,  I  do  think,  or  rather  I  do  hope,  that  such  a  time  may 
come  when  I  can  at  least  spend  a  week  with  you.  I 
dare  not  hope  for  a  longer  time,  for  I  know  I  shall  be 
disappointed.  About  the  middle  of  this  month  brother 
graduates,  and  will  leave  West  Point  for  home.  He 
intends  to  visit  Plattsburgh,  and  it  wrill  take  much  to 
wean  me  from  my  favourite  plan  of  accompanying 
him.  However,  all  is  uncertain — I  must  not  think  of  it 
too  much — but  if  I  do  come,  it  will  be  with  the  hope  of 
gaining  a  still  greater  pleasure.  We  are  now  delight- 


BIOGRAPHY.  81 

fully  situated.  Can  you  not  return  with  me,  and  make 
me  a  visit  ?  Whatjoy  is  like  the  joy  of  anticipation  1 
What  pleasure  like  those  we  look  forward  to,  through  a 
long  lapse  of  time,  and  dwell  upon  as  some  bright  land 
that  we  shall  inhabit  when  the  present  shall  have  become 
the  past?  I  have  heard  it  observed  that  it  was  foolish 
to  anticipate — that  it  was  only  increasing  the  pangs  of 
disappointment.  Not  so :  do  we  not,  in  our  most  san 
guine  hopes,  acknowledge  to  ourselves  a  fear,  a  doubt, 
an  expectation  of  disappointment  1  ^Shall  we  lose  the 
enjoyment  of  the  present,  because  evil  may  come  in 
future?  No,  no — if  anticipation  was  not  meant  for  a 
solace,  an  alleviation  of  the  sorrows  of  life,  would  it 
have  been  so  strongly  implanted  in  our  hearts  by  the 
great  Director  of  all  our  passions  1  No — it  is  too  pre 
cious  !  I  would  give  up  half  the  reality  of  joy  for  the 
sweet  anticipation.  Stop — I  have  gone  too  far — for 
indeed  I  could  not  resign  my  visit  to  you,  though  I 
might  hope  and  anticipate  for  years ! 

"Just  as  I  had  written  the  above,  father  interrupted 
me  with  an  invitation  to  ride.  We  have  just  returned 
from  a  long,  delightful  drive.  Though  Ballston  cannot 
compare  with  Plattsburgh  for  its  rich  and  varied 
scenery,  still  there  are  romantic  woods  and  shady 
paths  which  cannot  fail  to  delight  the  true  lover  of 
nature.  ******** 

"  So  you  do  have  the  blues,  eh  ?  I  had  almost  said  I 
was  glad  of  it ;  but  that  would  be  too  cruel — I  will  only 
say,  one  does  not  like  to  be  alone,  or  in  any  thing  singu 
lar,  and  I  too,  once  in  a  while,  receive  a  visit  from  these 
provoking  imps — are  they  not  ?  You  should  not  have 
blamed  Scott  only,  (excuse  me,)  but  yourself,  for  select 
ing  such  a  book  to  chase  away  melancholy. 


82  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  You  ask  me  if  I  remember  those  story-telling  days  ? 
Indeed  I  do,  and  nothing  affords  me  more  pleasure  than 
the  recollection  of  those  happy  hours  !  If  my  memory 
could  only  retain  the  particulars  of  my  last  story,  gladly 
would  I  resume  and  continue  it  when  I  meet  you  again. 
I  will  ease  your  heart  of  its  fear  for  mine — your  scold 
ing  did  not  break  it.  My  dear  H.,  it  is  not  made  of 
such  brittle  materials  as  to  crack  for  a  trifle.  No,  no ! 
It  would  be  far  more  prudent  to  save  it  entire  for  some 
greater  occasion,  and  then  make  the  crash  as  loud  as 
possible — don't  you  think  so  ?  Oh  nonsensical  non 
sense  !  Well, 

'  The  greatest  and  the  wisest  men 
Will  fool  a  little  now  and  then.1 

But  I  believe  I  will  not  add  another  word,  lest  my  pen 
should  slide  off  into  some  new  absurdity." 

On  the  1st  of  May,  1837,  the  family  left  New  York 
for  Ballston.  They  had  scarce  reached  there  when 
Mrs.  Davidson  had  an  attack  of  inflammatory  rheu 
matism,  which  confined  her  to  her  bed,  and  rendered 
her  helpless  as  an  infant.  It  was  Margaret's  turn  now 
to  play  the  nurse,  which  she  did  with  the  most  tender 
assiduity.  The  paroxysms  of  her  mother's  complaint 
were  at  first  really  alarming,  as  may  be  seen  by  the 
following  extract  of  a  letter  from  Margaret  to  Miss 
Sedgwick,  written  some  short  time  afterwards : 

"  We  at  first  thought  she  would  never  revive.  It  was 
indeed  a  dreadful  hour,  my  dear  madam — a  sad  trial 
for  poor  father  and  myself,  to  watch,  as  we  supposed, 
the  last  agonies  of  one  so  beloved  as  my  dear  mother ! 
But  the  cloud  has  passed  by,  and  my  heart,  relieved 


BIOGRAPHY.  83 

from  its  burden,  is  filled,  almost  to  overflowing,  with 
gratitude  and  joy.  After  a  few  hours  of  dreadful  sus 
pense,  reaction  took  place,  and  since  then  she  has  been 
slowly  and  steadily  improving.  In  a  few  days,  I  hope, 
she  will  be  able  to  ride,  and  breathe  some  of  this  delight 
ful  air,  which  cannot  fail  to  invigorate  and  restore  her. 
My  own  health  has  improved  astonishingly  since  my 
coming  here.  I  walk,  and  ride,  and  exercise  as  much 
as  possible  in  the  open  air,  and  find  it  of  great  service 
to  me.  Oh  how  much  I  hope  to  see  you  here !  * 

*  *  *  Do,  if  possible,  try  the  Ballston  air 
once  more.  It  has  been  useful  to  you  once,  it  might  be 
still  more  so  now.  You  will  find  warm  hearts  to  wel 
come  you,  and  we  will  do  all  in  our  power  to  make 
your  visit  pleasant  to  you.  The  country  does  indeed 
look  beautiful!  The  woods  are  teeming  with  wild 
flowers,  and  the  air  is  full  of  melody.  The  soft,  wild 
warbling  of  the  birds  is  far  more  sweet  to  me  than  the 
most  laboured  performances  of  art ;  they  may  weary  by 
repetition,  but  what  heart  can  resist  the  influence  of  a 
lovely  day  ushered  in  by  the  morning  song  of  those 
sweet  carollers  !  and  even  to  sleep,  as  it  were,  by  their 
melodious  evening  strain.  How  I  wish  you  could  be 
here  to  enjoy  it  with  me." 

The  summer  of  1837  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  her 
fleeting  existence.  For  some  time  after  the  family 
removed  to  Ballston  she  was  very  much  confined  to 
the  house  by  the  illness  of  her  mother,  and  the  want  of 
a  proper  female  companion  to  accompany  her  abroad. 
At  length,  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.,  estimable  and  intimate 
friends,  of  a  highly  intellectual  character,  came  to  the 
village.  Their  society  was  an  invaluable  acquisition  to 
Margaret.  In  company  with  them  she  was  enabled  to 


84  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

enjoy  the  healthful  recreations  of  the  country ;  to  ram 
ble  in  the  woods ;  to  take  exercise  on  horseback,  of 
which  she  was  extremely  fond,  and  to  make  excursions 
about  the  neighbourhood ;  while  they  exerted  a  guardian 
care  to  prevent  her,  in  her  enthusiastic  love  for  rural 
scenery,  from  exposing  herself  to  any  thing  detrimental 
to  her  health  and  strength.  She  gave  herself  up,  for  a 
time,  to  these  exhilarating  exercises,  abstaining  from 
her  usual  propensity  to  overtask  her  intellect,  for  she 
had  imbibed  the  idea  that  active  habits,  cheerful  recrea 
tions,  and  a  holiday  frame  of  mind  would  effectually 
re-establish  her  health.  As  usual,  in  her  excited  moods, 
she  occasionally  carried  these  really  healthful  practices 
to  excess,  and  would  often,  says  her  mother,  engage, 
with  a  palpitating  heart,  and  a  pulse  beating  at  the  rate 
of  one  hundred  and  thirty  in  a  minute,  in  all  the  exer 
cises  usually  prescribed  to  preserve  health  in  those  who 
are  in  full  possession  of  the  blessing.  She  was  admo 
nished  of  her  danger  by  several  attacks  upon  her  lungs 
during  the  summer,  but  as  they  were  of  short  duration, 
she  still  flattered  herself  that  she  was  getting  well. 
There  seemed  to  be  almost  an  infatuation  in  her  case. 
The  exhilaration  of  her  spirits  was  at  times  so  great  as 
almost  to  overpower  her.  Often  would  she  stand  by 
the  window  admiring  a  glorious  sunset,  until  she  would 
be  raised  into  a  kind  of  ecstasy;  her  eye  wrould  kindle; 
a  crimson  glow  would  mount  into  her  cheek,  and  she 
would  indulge  in  some  of  her  reveries  about  the  glories 
of  heaven,  and  the  spirits  of  her  deceased  sisters,  partly 
uttering  her  fancies  aloud,  until  turning  and  catching  her 
mother's  eye  fixed  painfully  upon  her,  she  would  throw 
her  arms  round  her  neck,  kiss  away  her  tears,  and  sink 
exhausted  on  her  bosom.  The  excitement  over,  she 


BIOGRAPHY.  85 

would  resume  her  calmness,  and  converse  on  general 
topics.  Among  her  writings  are  fragments  hastily 
scrawled  down  at  this  time,  showing  the  vague  aspira 
tions  of  her  spirit,  and  her  vain  attempts  to  grasp  those 
shadowy  images  that  sometimes  flit  across  the  poetic 
mind. 

Oh  for  a  something  more  than  this, 

To  fill  the  void  within  my  breast ; 
A  sweet  reality  of  bliss, 

A  something  bright,  but  unexpress'd. 

My  spirit  longs  for  something  higher 
Than  life's  dull  stream  can  e'er  supply; 

Something  to  feed  this  inward  fire, 
This  spark,  which  never  more  can  die. 

I'd  hold  companionship  with  all 

Of  pure,  of  noble,  or  divine ; 
With  glowing  heart  adoring  fall, 

And  kneel  at  nature's  sylvan  shrine. 

My  soul  is  like  a  broken  lyre, 

Whose  loudest,  sweetest  chord  is  gone ; 

A  note,  half  trembling  on  the  wire — 
A  heart  that  wants  an  echoing  tone. 

When  shall  I  find  this  shadowy  bliss, 
This  shapeless  phantom  of  the  mind  ? 

This  something  words  can  ne'er  express, 
So  vague,  so  faint,  so  undefined  ? 

Language  !  thou  never  canst  portray 

The  fancies  floating  o'er  my  soul ! 
Thou  ne'er  canst  chase  the  clouds  away 

Which  o'er  my  changing  visions  roll ! 


86  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  again — 

Oh  I  have  gazed  on  forms  of  light, 

Till  life  seem'd  ebbing  in  a  tear — 
Till  in  that  fleeting  space  of  sight 

Were  merged  the  feelings  of  a  year. 

And  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  song, 
Till  my  full  heart  gush'd  wild  and  free, 

And  my  rapt  soul  would  float  along 
As  if  on  waves  of  melody. 

But  while  I  glow'd  at  beauty's  glance, 

I  long'd  to  feel  a  deeper  thrill : 
And  while  I  heard  that  dying  strain, 

I  sigh'd  for  something  sweeter  still. 

I  have  been  happy,  and  my  soul 

Free  from  each  sorrow,  care,  regret ; 
Yet  even  in  these  hours  of  bliss 

I  long'd  to  find  them  happier  yet. 

Oft  o'er  the  darkness  of  my  mind 

Some  meteor  thought  has  glanced  at  will ; 

'Twas  bright — but  ever  have  I  sigh'd 
To  find  a  fancy  brighter  still. 

Why  are  these  restless,  vain  desires, 

Which  always  grasp  at  something  more 

To  feed  the  spirit's  hidden  fires, 

Which  burn  unseen — unnoticed  soar  ? 

Well  might  the  heathen  sage  have  known 
That  earth  must  fail  the  soul  to  bind  ; 

That  life,  and  life's  tame  joys,  alone 
Could  never  chain  the  ethereal  mind. 

The  above,  as  we  have  before  observed,  are  mere 
fragments,  unfinished  and  uncorrected,  and  some  of  the 


BIOGRAPHY.  87 

verses  have  a  vagueness  incident  to  the  mood  of  mind 
in  which  they  were  conceived,  and  the  haste  with 
which  they  were  penned ;  but  in  these  lofty,  indefinite 
aspirations  of  a  young,  half-schooled,  and  inexperienced 
mind,  we  see  the  early  and  impatient  flutterings  of  a 
poetical  genius,  which,  if  spared,  might  have  soared  to 
the  highest  regions. 

In  a  letter  written  to  Miss  Sedgwick  during  the 
autumn,  she  speaks  of  her  health  as  having  rapidly 
improved.  "  I  am  no  longer  afflicted  by  the  cough, 
and  mother  feels  it  unnecessary  now  to  speak  to  me  as 
being  ill ;  though  my  health  is,  and  probably  always 
will  be,  very  delicate." — "And  she  really  did  appear 
better,"  observes  her  mother,  "  and  even  I,  who  had 
ever  been  nervously  alive  to  every  symptom  of  her 
disease,  was  deluded  by  those  favourable  appearances, 
and  began  to  entertain  a  hope  that  she  might  yet 
recover,  when  another  sudden  attack  of  bleeding  at  the 
lungs  convinced  us  of  the  fallacy  of  our  hopes,  and 
warned  us  to  take  every  measure  to  ward  off  the 
severity  of  the  climate  in  the  coming  winter.  A  con 
sultation  was  held  between  her  father  and  our  favourite 
physician,  and  the  result  was  that  she  was  to  keep 
within  doors.  This  was  indeed  sad,  but,  after  an 
evident  struggle  with  her  own  mind,  she  submitted, 
with  her  accustomed  good  sense,  to  the  decree.  All 
that  affection  could  suggest,  was  done,  to  prevent  the 
effects  of  this  seclusion  on  her  spirits."  A  cheerful 
room  was  allotted  to  her,  commanding  an  agreeable 
prospect,  and  communicating,  by  folding  doors,  to  a 
commodious  parlour;  the  temperature  of  the  whole 
apartment  was  regulated  by  a  thermometer.  Hither 
her  books,  writing-table,  drawing  implements1,  and 


88  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

fancy  work  were  transported.  When  once  established 
in  these  winter  quarters,  she  became  contented  and 
cheerful.  "She  read  and  wrote,"  says  her  mother, 
••and  amused  herself  with  drawing  and  needle-work. 
After  spending  as  much  time  as  I  dare  permit  in  the 
more  serious  studies  in  which  she  was  engaged,  she 
would  unbend  her  mind  with  one  of  Scott's  delightful 
novels,  or  play  with  her  kitten;  and  at  evening  we 
were  usually  joined  by  our  interesting  friends  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  II.  It  is  now  a  melancholy  satisfaction  to  me  to 
believe  that  she  could  not,  in  her  state  of  health,  be 
happier,  or  more  pleasantly  situated.  She  was  al\va\  s 
charmed  with  the  conversation  of  Mr.  H.,  and  followed 
him  through  all  the  mazes  of  philosophy  with  the 
greatest  delight.  She  read  Cousin  with  a  high  zest, 
and  produced  an  abstract  from  it  which  gave  a  con 
vincing  proof  that  she  understood  the  principles  there 
laid  down  ;  after  which  she  gave  a  complete  analysis  of 
the  Introduction  to  the  History  of  Philosophy,  by  the 
same  author.  Her  mind  must  have  been  deeply  en 
grossed  by  these  studies,  yet  it  was  not  visible  from  her 
manner.  During  this  short  winter  she  accomplished 
what  to  many  would  have  been  the  labour  of  years, 
yet  there  was  no  haste,  no  flurry ;  she  pursued  quietly 
her  round  of  occupations,  always  cheerful.  The  hours 
flew  swiftly  by;  not  a  moment  lagged.  I  think  she 
never  spent  a  more  happy  winter  than  this,  with  all  its 
varied  employments." 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  to  one  of  her 
young  friends,  gives  an  idea  of  her  course  of  reading 
during  this  winter;  and  how,  in  her  precocious  mind, 
the  playfulness  of  the  child  mingled  with  the  thoughtful- 
ness  of  the  woman. 


BIOGRAPHY.  89 

"  You  ask  me  what  I  am  reading.  Alas !  book 
worm  as  I  am,  it  makes  me  draw  a  long  breath  to 
contemplate  the  books  I  have  laid  out  for  perusal.  In 
the  first  place,  I  ajji  reading  Condillac's  Ancient  His 
tory,  in  French,  twenty-four  volumes ;  Gibbon's  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  in  four  large  volumes. 
I  have  not  quite  finished  Josephus.  In  my  moments  of 
recreation  I  am  poring  over  Scott's  bewitching  novels. 
I  wish  we  could  give  them  some  other  name  instead  of 
novels,  for  they  certainly  should  not  bear  the  same  title 
with  the  thousand  and  one  productions  of  that  class 
daily  swarming  from  the  press.  Do  you  think  they 
ought?  So  pure,  so  pathetic,  so  historical,  and,  above 
all,  so  true  to  human  nature.  How  beautifully  he 
mingles  the  sad  with  the  grotesque,  in  such  a  manner 
that  the  opposite  feelings  they  excite  harmonize  per 
fectly  with  each  other.  His  works  can  be  read  over 
and  over  again,  and  every  time  with  a  growing  sense 
of  their  beauties.  Do  you  read  French  ?  If  so,  I  wish 
we  could  read  the  same  works  together.  It  would  be 
a  great  pleasure  to  me  at  least,  and  our  mutual  remarks 
might  benefit  each  other.  Supposing  you  will  be  pleased 
to  hear  of  my  amusements,  however  trifling,  I  will  ven 
ture  to  name  one,  at  the  risk  of  lowering  any  great 
opinion  you  may  have  formed  of  my  wisdom  !  A  pet 
kitten  ! ! !  Yes,  my  dear  Henrietta,  a  sweet  little  crea 
ture,  with  a  graceful  shape,  playful  temper,  white  breast, 
and  dear  little  innocent  eyes,  which  completely  belie  the 
reputed  disposition  of  a  cat.  He  is  neither  deceitful, 
ferocious,  nor  ungrateful,  but  is  certainly  the  most 
rational  being  for  an  irrational  one,  I  ever  saw.  He  is 
now  snugly  lying  in  my  lap,  watching  every  movement 
of  my  pen  with  a  quiet  purr  of  contentment.  Have 

7 


90  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

you  such  a  pet  ?  I  wish  you  had,  that  we  might  both 
play  with  them  at  the  same  time,  sunset,  for  instance, 
and  while  so  far  distant,  feel  that  we  were  enjoying 
ourselves  in  the  selfsame  way.  You  ask  what  I  think 
of  animal  magnetism?  My  dear  Hetty,  I  have  not 
troubled  my  head  about  it.  I  hear  of  it  from  eveiy 
quarter,  and  mentioned  so  often  with  contempt,  that  I 
have  thought  of  it  only  as  an  absurdity.  If  I  understand 
it  rightly,  the  leading  principle  is  the  influence  of  one 
mind  upon  another;  there  is  undoubtedly  such  an  in 
fluence,  to  a  reasonable  degree,  but  as  to  throwing  one 
into  a  magnetic  sleep — presenting  visions  before  their 
eyes  of  scenes  passing  afar  off,  it  seems  almost  too 
ridiculous  !  Still  it  may  all  be  true!  A  hundred  years 
since,  what  would  have  been  our  feelings  to  see  what  is 
now  here  so  common,  a  steam  engine,  breathing  fire  and 
smoke,  gliding  along  with  the  rapidity  of  thought,  and 
carrying  at  its  black  heels  a  train  which  a  hundred  men 
would  fail  to  move.  We  know  not  but  this  apparent 
absurdity,  this  magnetism  may  be  a  great  and  myste 
rious  secret,  which  the  course  of  time  will  reveal  and 
adapt  to  important  purposes.  *  *  *  *  * 
What  are  you  studying?  Do  you  play?  Do  you  draw? 
Please  tell  me  every  thing.  I  wish  I  could  form  some 
picture  of  you  to  my  mind's  eye.  It  is  so  tormenting  to 
correspond  with  a  dear  friend,  and  have  no  likeness  of 
them  in  our  fancy.  I  remember  every  thing  as  it  used 
to  be,  but  time  makes  great  changes !  Now  here  comes 
my  saucy  kitten,  and  springs  upon  the  table  before  me 
as  if  he  had  a  perfect  right  there.  '  What  do  you  mean, 
little  puss  ?  Come,  sit  for  your  portrait.'  I  hope,  dear 
H.,  you  will  fully  appreciate  this  painting,  which  I  con 
sider  as  my  chef-d'oeuvre,  and  preserve  it  as  a  faithful  like- 


BIOGRAPHY.  91 

ness  of  my  inimitable  cat.  But  do  forgive  me  so  much 
nonsense !  But  I  feel  that  to  you  I  can  rattle  off  any 
thing  that  comes  uppermost.  It  is  near  night,  and  the 
sun  is  setting  so  beautifully  after  the  long  storm,  that  I 
could  not  sit  here  much  longer,  even  if  I  had  a  whole 
page  to  fill.  How  splendid  the  moon  must  look  on  the 
bright  waters  of  the  Champlain  this  night !  Good  bye, 
good  bye — love  to  all  from  all,  and  believe  me,  now  as 
ever, 

Your  sincere  friend, 

MARGARET." 

The  following  passages  from  her  mother's  memoran 
dums,  touch  upon  matters  of  more  solemn  interest, 
which  occasionally  occupied  her  young  mind : 

"  During  the  whole  of  the  preceding  summer  her 
mind  had  dwelt  much  upon  the  subject  of  religion. 
Much  of  her  time  was  devoted  to  serious  reflection,  self- 
examination,  and  prayer.  But  she  evidently  shunned 
all  conversation  upon  the  subject.  It  was  a  theme 
she  had  always  conversed  upon  with  pleasure  until 
now.  This  not  only  surprised  but  pained  me.  I  was  a 
silent  but  close  and  anxious  observer  of  the  operations 
of  her  mind,  and  saw  that,  with  all  her  apparent  cheer 
fulness,  she  was  ill  at  ease;  perfect  silence  was  however 
maintained  on  both  sides  until  the  winter  commenced, 
and  brought  us  more  closely  together.  Then  her  young 
heart  again  reposed  itself,  in  confiding  love,  upon  the 
bosom  that  heretofore  had  shared  its  every  thought,  and 
the  subject  became  one  of  daily  discussion.  I  found  her 
mind  perplexed  and  her  ideas  confused  by  points  of 
doctrine  which  she  could  neither  understand  nor  recon 
cile  with  her  views  of  the  justice  and  benevolence  of 


92  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

God,  as  exhibited  in  the  Scriptures.  Her  views  of  the 
Divine  character  and  attributes  had  ever  been  of  that 
elevated  cast,  which,  while  they  raised  her  mind  above 
all  grosser  things,  sublimated  and  purified  her  feelings 
and  desires,  and  prepared  her  for  that  bright  and  holy 
communion  without  which  she  could  enjoy  nothing. 
Her  faith  was  of  that  character  *  which  casteth  out 
fear.'  It  was  sweet  and  soothing  to  depend  upon  Jesus 
for  salvation.  It  was  delightful  to  behold,  in  the  all- 
imposing  majesty  of  God,  a  kind  and  tender  father,  who 
pitied  her  infirmities,  and  on  whose  justice  and  benevo 
lence  she  could  rest  for  time  and  eternity.  She  had, 
during  the  summer,  heard  much  disputation  on  doc 
trinal  points,  which  she  had  silently  and  carefully 
examined,  and  had  been  shocked  at  the  position  which 
many  professing  Christians  had  taken;  she  saw  much 
inconsistency,  much  bitterness  of  spirit,  on  points  which 
she  had  been  taught  to  consider  not  essential  to  salva 
tion  ;  she  saw  that  the  spirit  of  persecution  and  unchari- 
tableness  which  pervaded  many  classes  of  Christians, 
had  almost  totally  destroyed  that  bond  of  brotherhood 
which  ought  firmly  to  unite  the  followers  of  the  humble 
Saviour;  and  she  could  not  reconcile  these  feelings 
with  her  ideas  of  the  Christian  character.  Her  meek 
ness  and  humility  led  her  sometimes  to  doubt  her  own 
state.  She  felt  that  her  religious  duties  were  but  too 
feebly  performed,  and  that  without  divine  assistance 
all  her  resolutions  to  be  more  faithful  were  vain.  She 
often  said,  '  Mamma,  I  am  far  from  right.  I  resolve 
and  re-resolve,  and  yet  remain  the  same.'  I  had 
shunned  every  thing  that  savoured  of  controversy, 
knowing  her  enthusiasm  and  extreme  sensibility  on  the 
subject  of  religion ;  I  dreaded  the  excitement  it  might 


BIOGRAPHY.  93 

create.  But  I  now  more  fully  explained,  as  well  as  I 
was  able,  the  simple  and  divine  truths  of  the  Gospel, 
and  held  up  to  her  jiew  the  beauty  and  benevolence  of 
the  Father's  character,  and  the  unbounded  love  which 
could  have  devised  the  atoning  sacrifice;  and  advised 
her  at  present  to  avoid  controversial  writings,  and  make 
a  more  thorough  examination  of  the  Scriptures,  that  she 
might  found  her  principles  upon  the  evidences  to  be 
deduced  from  that  groundwork  of  our  faith,  unbiassed 
by  the  opinions  and  prejudices  of  any  man.  I  repre 
sented  to  her,  that,  young  as  she  was,  while  in  feeble 
health,  researches  into  those  knotty  and  disputed 
subjects  would  only  confuse  her  mind  ;  that  there  was 
enough  of  plain  practical  religion  to  be  gathered  from 
the  Bible ;  and  urged  the  importance  of  frequent  and 
earnest  prayer,  which,  with  God's  blessing,  would 
compose  the  agitation  of  her  mind,  which  I  considered 
as  essential  to  her  inward  peace." 

On  one  occasion,  while  perusing  Lockhart's  Life  of 
Scott  with  great  interest,  her  mother  ventured  to  sound 
her  feelings  upon  the  subject  of  literary  fame,  and 
asked  her  whether  she  had  no  ambition  to  have  her 
name  go  down  to  posterity.  She  took  her  mother's 
hand  with  enthusiasm,  kissed  her  cheek,  and,  retiring 
to  the  other  room,  in  less  than  an  hour  returned  with 
the  following  lines : 

TO  DIE  AND  BE  FORGOTTEN. 

A  few  short  years  will  roll  along, 

With  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
Then  shall  I  pass — a  broken  tone ! 

An  echo  of  a  strain ! 


94  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then  shall  I  fade  away  from  life, 
Like  cloud-tints  from  the  sky, 

When  the  breeze  sweeps  their  surface  o'er, 
And  they  are  lost  for  aye. 

The  world  will  laugh,  and  weep,  and  sing-, 

As  gaily  as  before, 
But  cold  and  silent  I  shall  be — 

As  I  have  been  no  more. 

The  haunts  I  loved,  the  flowers  I  nursed 
Will  bloom  as  sweetly  still, 

But  other  hearts  and  other  hands 
My  vacant  place  shall  fill. 

And  even  mighty  love  must  fail 
To  bind  my  memory  here — 

Like  fragrance  round  the  faded  rose, 
'Twill  perish  with  the  year. 

The  soul  may  look,  with  fervent  hope, 

To  worlds  of  future  bliss  ; 
But  oh  how  saddening  to  the  heart 

To  be  forgot  in  this  1 

How  many  a  noble  mind  hath  shrunk 
From  death  without  a  name ; 

Hath  look'd  beyond  his  shadowy  realm, 
And  lived  and  died  for  fame. 

Could  we  not  view  the  darksome  grave 

With  calmer,  steadier  eye, 
If  conscious  that  a  world's  regret 

Would  seek  us  where  we  lie  ? 

Faith  points,  with  mild,  confiding  glance, 

To  realms  of  bliss  above, 
Where  peace,  and  joy,  and  justice  reign, 

And  never-dying  love ; 


BIOGRAPHY.  95 


But  still  our  earthly  feelings  cling 
Around  this  bounded  spot ; — 

There  is  a  something  burns  within 
Which  will  not  be  forgot. 

It  cares  not  for  a  gorgeous  hearse, 
For  waving  torch  and  plume ; 

For  pealing  hymn,  funereal  verse, 
Or  richly  sculptured  tomb; 

But  it  would  live  undimm'd  and  fresh, 
When  flickering  life  departs ; 

Would  find  a  pure  and  honour' d  grave, 
Embalm'd  in  kindred  hearts. 

Who  would  not  brave  a  life  of  tears 
To  win  an  honourM  name  ? 

One  sweet  and  heart-awakening  tone 
From  the  silver  trump  of  fame  ? 

To  be,  when  countless  years  have  past, 
The  good  man's  glowing  theme  ? 

To  be — but  I — what  right  have  I 
To  this  bewildering  dream  ? 

Oh  it  is  vain,  and  worse  than  vain, 
To  dwell  on  thoughts  like  these ; 

J  a  frail  child,  whose  feeble  frame 
Already  knows  disease ! 

Who,  ere  another  spring  may  dawn, 

Another  summer  bloom, 
May,  like  the  flowers  of  autumn,  lie, 

A  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Away,  away,  presumptuous  thought ! 

I  will  not  dwell  on  thee  ! 
For  what,  alas !  am  I  to  fame, 

And  what  is  fame  to  me  ? 


96  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Let  all  these  wild  and  longing  thoughts 

With  the  dying  year  expire, 
And  I  will  nurse  within  my  breast 

A  purer,  holier  fire  1 

Yes,  I  will  seek  my  mind  to  win 

From  all  these  dreams  of  strife, 
And  toil  to  write  my  name  within 

The  glorious  book  of  life. 

Then  shall  old  time  who,  rolling  on, 

Impels  me  towards  the  tomb, 
Prepare  for  me  a  glorious  crown, 

Through  endless  years  to  bloom. 

December,  1837. 

The  confinement  to  the  house,  in  a  graduated  tem 
perature,  the  round  of  cheerful  occupations,  and  the 
unremitting  care  taken  of  her,  produced  a  visible  melio 
ration  of  her  symptoms.  Her  cough  gradually  subsided, 
the  morbid  irritability  of  her  system,  producing  often  an 
unnatural  flow  of  spirits,  was  quieted ;  as  usual,  she 
looked  forward  to  spring  as  the  genial  and  delightful 
season  that  was  to  restore  her  to  perfect  health  and 
freedom. 

Christmas  was  approaching,  which  had  ever  been  a 
time  of  social  enjoyment  in  the  family ;  as  it  drew  near, 
however,  the  remembrance  of  those  lost  from  the  fire 
side  circle  was  painfully  felt  by  Mrs.  Davidson.  Mar 
garet  saw  the  gloom  on  her  mother's  brow,  and,  kissing 
her,  exclaimed,  "  Dear  mother,  do  not  let  us  waste  our 
present  happiness  in  useless  repining.  You  see  I  am 
well,  and  you  are  more  comfortable,  and  dear  father  is 
in  good  health  and  spirits.  Let  us  enjoy  the  present 


BIOGRAPHY.  97 

hour,  and  banish  vain  regrets!"  Having  given  this 
wholesome  advice,  she  tripped  off  with  a  light  step  to 
prepare  Christmas  presents  for  the  servants,  which  were 
to  be  distributed  b~f  St.  Nicholas  or  Santa  Claus,  in  the 
old  traditional  way.  Every  animated  being,  rational  or 
irrational,  must  share  her  liberality  on  that  day  of  fes 
tivity  and  joy.  Her  Jenny,  a  little  bay  pony  on  which 
she  had  taken  many  healthful  and  delightful  rides,  must 
have  a  gayer  blanket,  and  an  extra  allowance  of  oats. 
"  On  Christmas  morning,"  says  her  mother,  "  she  woke 
with  the  first  sound  of  the  old  house  clock  striking  the 
hour  of  five,  and  twining  her  arms  round  my  neck,  (for 
during  this  winter  she  shared  my  bed,)  and  kissing  me 
again  and  again,  exclaimed 

'  Wake,  mother,  wake  to  youthful  glee, 
The  golden  sun  is  dawning ;' 

then  slipping  a  piece  of  paper  into  my  hand,  she  sprang 
out  of  bed,  and  danced  about  the  carpet,  her  kitten  in 
her  arms,  with  all  the  sportive  glee  of  childhood.  When 
I  gazed  upon  her  young  face,  so  bright,  so  animated, 
and  beautiful,  beaming  with  innocence  and  love,  and 
thought  that  perhaps  this  was  the  last  anniversary  of 
her  Saviour's  birth  she  might  spend  on  earth,  I  could 
not  suppress  my  emotions :  I  caught  her  to  my  bosom 
in  an  agony  of  tenderness,  while  she,  all  unconscious  of 
the  nature  of  my  feelings,  returned  my  caresses  with 
playful  fondness."  The  following  verses  were  con 
tained  in  the  above-mentioned  paper  : 

TO  MY  MOTHER  AT  CHRISTMAS. 

Wake,  mother,  wake  to  hope  and  glee, 
The  golden  sun  is  dawning ! 


98  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Wake,  mother,  wake,  and  hail  with  me 
This  happy  Christmas  morning ! 

Each  eye  is  bright  with  pleasure's  glow, 
Each  lip  is  laughing  merrily ; 

A  smile  hath  past  o'er  winter's  brow, 
And  the  very  snow  looks  cheerily. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  the  awaken'd  day, 
To  the  sleigh-bells  gaily  ringing, 

While  a  thousand,  thousand  happy  hearts 
Their  Christmas  lays  are  singing. 

'Tis  a  joyous  hour  of  mirth  and  love, 
And  my  heart  is  overflowing ! 

Come,  let  us  raise  our  thoughts  above, 
While  pure,  and  fresh,  and  glowing. 

'Tis  the  happiest  day  of  the  rolling  year, 
But  it  comes  in  a  robe  of  mourning, 

Nor  light,  nor  life,  nor  bloom  is  here 
Its  icy  shroud  adorning. 

It  comes  when  all  around  is  dark, 

'Tis  meet  it  so  should  be, 
For  its  joy  is  the  joy  of  the  happy  heart, 

The  spirit's  jubilee. 

It  does  not  need  the  bloom  of  spring, 
Or  summer's  light  and  gladness, 

For  love  has  spread  her  beaming  wing 
O'er  winter's  brow  of  sadness. 

'Twas  thus  he  came,  beneath  a  cloud 
His  spirit's  light  concealing, 

No  crown  of  earth,  no  kingly  robe 
His  heavenly  power  revealing. 

His  soul  was  pure,  his  mission  love, 
His  aim  a  world's  redeeming  ; 

To  raise  the  darken'd  soul  above 
Its  wild  and  sinful  dreaming, 


BIOGRAPHY.  99 

With  all  his  Father's  power  and  love, 

The  cords  of  guilt  to  sever ; 
To  ope  a  sacred  fount  of  light, 

Which  flows,  shall  flow  for  ever. 

0£ 
Then  we  shall  hail  the  glorious  day, 

The  spirit's  new  creation, 
And  pour  our  grateful  feelings  forth, 

A  pure  and  warm  libation. 

Wake,  mother,  wake  to  chasten' d  joy, 

The  golden  sun  is  dawning ! 
Wake,  mother,  wake,  and  hail  with  me 

This  happy  Christmas  morning. 

"  The  last  day  of  the  year  1837  arrived.  '  Mamma,' 
said  she,  l  will  you  sit  up  with  me  to-night  until  after 
twelve  V  I  looked  inquiringly.  She  replied,  « I  wish 
to  bid  farewell  to  the  present,  and  to  welcome  the 
coming  year.'  After  the  family  retired,  and  we  had 
seated  ourselves  by  a  cheerful  fire  to  spend  the  hours 
which  would  intervene  until  the  year  1838  should  dawn 
upon  us,  she  was  serious,  but  not  sad,  and  as  if  she  had 
nothing  more  than  usual  upon  her  mind,  took  some  light 
sewing  in  her  hand,  and  so  interested  me  by  her  conver 
sation,  that  I  scarcely  noticed  the  flight  of  time.  At 
half  past  eleven  she  handed  me  a  book,  pointing  to  some 
interesting  article  to  amuse  me,  then  took  her  seat  at 
the  writing-table,  and  composed  the  piece  on  the  depar 
ture  of  the  old  year  1837,  and  the  commencement  of 
the  new  one  1838.  When  she  had  finished  the  Fare 
well,  except  the  last  verse,  it  wanted  a  few  minutes  of 
twelve.  She  rested  her  arms  in  silence  upon  the  table, 
apparently  absorbed  in  meditation.  The  clock  struck — 
a  sort  of  deep  thought  passed  over  her  expressive  face — 
she  remained  solemn  and  silent  until  the  last  tone  had 
ceased  to  vibrate,  when  she  again  resumed  her  pen  and 


100  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

wrote.  The  bell  hath  ceased.  When  the  clock 
struck,  I  arose  from  my  seat  and  stood  leaning  over 
the  back  of  her  chair,  with  a  mind  deeply  solemnized 
by  a  scene  so  new  and  interesting.  The  words  flowed 
rapidly  from  her  pen,  without  haste  or  confusion,  and 
at  one  o'clock  we  were  quietly  in  bed." 

We  again  subjoin  the  poem  alluded  to,  trusting 
that  these  effusions,  which  are  so  intimately  connected 
with  her  personal  history,  will  be  read  with  greater 
interest,  when  given  in  conjunction  with  the  scenes 
and  circumstances  which  prompted  them. 

ON   THE    DEPARTURE    OF    THE    YEAR    1837,  AND    THE    COM 
MENCEMENT    OF    1858. 

HARK  to  the  house  clock's  measured  chime, 

As  it  cries  to  the  startled  ear, 
"  A  dirge  for  the  soul  of  departing  time, 

A  requiem  for  the  year." 

Thou  art  passing  away  to  the  mighty  past, 

Where  thy  countless  brethren  sleep, 
Till  the  great  Archangel's  trumpet  blast, 

Shall  waken  land  and  deep. 

Oh  the  lovely  and  beautiful  things  that  lie 

On  thy  cold  and  motionless  breast ! 
Oh  the  tears,  the  rejoicings,  the  smiles,  the  sighs, 

Departing  with  thee  to  their  rest. 

Thou  wert  usher'd  to  life  amid  darkness  and  gloom, 

But  the  cold  icy  cloud  passed  away, 
And  spring,  in  her  verdure  and  freshness  and  bloom, 

Touched  with  glory  thy  mantle  of  gray. 

The  flow'rets  burst  forth,  in  their  beauty — the  trees 

In  their  exquisite  robes  were  array'd, 
But  thou  glidest  along,  and  the  flower  and  the  leaf, 

At  the  sound  of  thy  footsteps,  decay 'd. 


BIOGRAPHY.  101 

And  fairer  young  blossoms  wer,e  blooming  alone, 
And  they  died  at  the  glance '-ol'^l^e  pye,        ^  ;  i 

But  a  life  was  within  which  should'rfse  o'er  their  own, 
And  a  spirit  thou  coulcTst  not  flestcoy", ' ; ' '  *  ] 

j^  *>*>          »+*}**  *         *       + 

Thou  hast  folded  thy  pinions,  thy  race  is  complete, 

And  fulfill'd  the  Creator's  behest, 
Then,  adieu  to  thee,  year  of  our  sorrows  and  joys, 

And  peaceful  and  long  be  thy  rest. 

Farewell !  for  thy  truth  written  record  is  full, 

And  the  page  weeps,  for  sorrow  and  crime, 
Farewell !  for  the  leaf  hath  shut  down  on  the  past, 

And  conceal'd  the  dark  annals  of  time. 

The  bell !  it  hath  ceas'd  with  its  iron  tongue 

To  ring  on  the  startled  ear, 
The  dirge  o'er  the  grave  of  the  lost  one  is  rung, 

All  hail  to  the  new-born  year ! 

All  hail  to  the  new-born  year, 

To  the  child  of  hope  and  fear ! 

He  comes  on  his  car  of  state, 

And  weaves  our  web  of  fate, 

And  he  opens  his  robe  to  receive  us  all, 

And  we  live  or  die,  and  we  rise  or  fall, 

In  the  arms  of  the  new-born  year  1 

Hope  !  spread  thy  soaring  wings  ! 

Look  forth  on  the  boundless  sea, 
And  trace  thy  bright  and  beautiful  things, 

On  the  veil  of  the  great  To  Be. 

Build  palaces  broad  as  the  sky, 

And  store  them  with  treasures  of  light, 
Let  exquisite  visions  bewilder  the  eye, 

And  illumine  the  darkness  of  night. 

We  are  gliding  fast  from  the  buried  year, 

And  the  present  is  no  more, 
But,  hope,  we  will  borrow  thy  sparkling  gear, 

And  shroud  the  future  o'er. 


102  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Our  tsars  and  sighs  shall  sleep, 

In  the  grave  qf  -the  si-p.nlt  *»ast, 
We  will  raise  up  flowers — nor  weep — 
*.  "feiihje  air  'huts  My  ifot  'hst   ' 

We  will  dream  our  dreams  of  joy, 
Ah  !  fear !  why  darken  the  scene  ? 

Why  sprinkle  that  ominous  tear, 
My  beautiful  visions  hetvveen. 

Hath  not  sorrow  swift  wings  of  her  own, 
That  thou  must  assist  in  her  flight  ? 

Is  not  daylight  too  rapidly  gone, 

That  thou  must  urge  onward  the  night. 

Ah  !  leave  me  to  fancy,  to  hope, 
For  grief  will  too  quickly  be  here, 

Ah !  leave  me  to  shadow  forth  figures  of  light, 
In  the  mystical  robe  of  the  year. 

'Tis  true,  they  may  never  assume 

The  substance  of  pleasure — the  real — 

But  believe  me  our  purest  of  joy, 
Consists  in  the  vague — the  ideal. 

Then  away  to  the  darksome  cave, 

With  thy  sisters,  the  sigh  and  the  tear, 

We  will  drink,  in  the  crystal  wave, 
The  health  of  the  new-born  year. 


"  She  had  been  for  some  time  thinking  of  a  subject 
for  a  poem,  and  the  next  day,  which  was  the  first  of 
January,  came  to  me  in  great  perplexity  and  asked 
my  advice.  I  had  long  desired  that  she  would  direct 
her  attention  to  the  beautiful  and  sublime  narratives 
of  the  Old  Testament,  and  now  proposed  that  she 
should  take  the  Bible  and  examine  it  with  that  view. 
After  an  hour  or  two  spent  in  research  she  remarked 
that  there  were  many,  very  many  subjects  of  deep 


BIOGRAPHY.  103 

and  thrilling  interest;  but,  if  she  now  should  make  a 
failure,  her  discouragement  would  be  such  as  to  pre 
vent  her  from  ever  making  another  attempt.  '  I  am 
now,'  she  said,  « trying  my  wings.  I  will  take  a  lighter 
subject  at  first:  if  I  succeed,  I  will  then  write  a  more 
perfect  poem,  founded  upon  Sacred  History.'  ' 

She  accordingly  took  as  a  theme  a  prose  tale,  in  a 
current  work  of  the  day,  and  wrote  several  pages  with 
a  flowing  pen,  but  soon  threw  them  by  dissatisfied. 
It  was  irksome  to  employ  the  thoughts  and  fancies  of 
another  and  to  have  to  ada  pt  her  own  to  the  plan  of  the 
author.  She  wanted  something  original.  "Aftersome 
farther  effort,"  says  Mrs.  Davidson,  "she  came  to  me 
out  of  spirits  and  in  tears.  <  Mother,'  said  she,  <  I  must 
give  it  up  after  all.'  I  asked  the  reason,  and  then  re 
marked  that  as  she  had  already  so  many  labors  upon 
her  hands,  and  was  still  feeble,  it  might  be  the  wisest 
course.  'Oh  mother,'  said  she, ' that  is  not  the  reason; 
my  head  and  my  heart  are  full:  poetic  images  are 
crowding  upon  my  brain,  but  every  subject  has  been 
monopolised:  "there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun.'" 
I  said  '  my  daughter,  that  others  have  written  upon  a 
subject  is  not  an  objection.  The  most  eminent  writers 
do  not  always  choose  what  is  new.'  *  Mother,  dear 
mother,  what  can  I  say  upon  a  theme  which  has  been 
touched  by  the  greatest  men  of  this  or  some  other  age? 
I,  a  mere  child;  it  is  absurd  in  me  to  think  of  it.'  She 
dropped  beside  me  on  the  sofa,  laid  her  head  upon 
my  bosom  and  sobbed  violently.  I  wiped  the  tears 
from  her  face,  while  my  own  were,  fast  flowing  and 
strove  to  soothe  the  tumult  of  her  mind.  *  *  *  When  we 
were  both  more  calm,  I  said,  <  Margaret,  I  had  hoped 
that  during  this  winter  you  would  not  have  com- 


104  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

menced  or  applied  yourself  to  any  important  work; 
but,  if  you  feel  in  that  way,  I  will  not  urge  you  to 
resign  an  occupation  which  gives  you  such  exquisite 
enjoyment." 

Mrs.  Davidson  then  went  on  to  show  to  her  that, 
notwithstanding  the  number  of  poets  that  had  written, 
the  themes  and  materials  for  poetry  are  inexhaustible. 
By  degrees  Margaret  became  composed;  took  up  a 
book  and  read.  The  words  of  her  mother  dwelt  in 
her  mind.  In  a  few  days  she  brought  her  mother  the 
introduction  to  a  projected  poem  to  be  called  Leonore. 
Mrs.  Davidson  was  touched  at  finding  the  remarks 
she  had  made  for  the  purpose  of  soothing  the  agitation 
of  her  daughter,  had  served  to  kindle  her  imagination; 
and  were  poured  forth  with  eloquence  in  those  verses. 
The  excitement  continued  and  the  poem  of  Leonore 
was  completed,  corrected  and  copied  into  her  book  by 
the  first  of  March;  having  written  her  plan  in  prose 
at  full  length,  containing  about  the  same  number  of 
lines  as  the  poem.  "During  its  progress,"  says  Mrs. 
Davidson,  "  when  fatigued  with  writing,  she  would 
take  her  kitten  and  recline  upon  the  sofa,  asking  me 
to  relate  to  her  some  of  the  scenes  of  the  last  war. 
Accordingly  I  would  wile  away  our  solitude  by  re 
peating  anecdotes  of  that  period;  and  before  Leonore 
was  completed  she  had  advanced  several  pages  in  a 
prose  tale,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  upon  lake 
Champlain  during  the  last  war.  She  at  the  same 
time,  executed  faces  and  figures  in  crayon  which 
would  not  have  disgraced  the  pencil  of  an  artist.  Her 
labors  were  truly  immense.  Yet  a  stranger  coming 
occasionally  to  the  house  would  hardly  observe  that 
she  had  any  pressing  avocations." 


BIOGRAPHY.  105 

The  following  are  extracts  from  a  rough  draught  of 
a  letter  written  to  Miss  Sedgwick  about  this  time. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM* — 

I  wish  I  could  express  to  you  my  pleasure  on  re 
ceiving  your  kind  and  affectionate  letter.  So  far  from 
considering  myself  neglected  by  your  silence,  I  felt  it 
a  great  privilege  to  be  permitted  to  write  to  you,  and 
knew  that  I  ought  not  to  expect  a  regular  answer 
to  every  letter,  even  while  I  was  longing,  day  after 
day,  to  receive  this  gratifying  token  of  remembrance. 
Unless  you  had  witnessed,  I  fear  you  would  hardly 
believe  my  extravagant  delight  on  reading  the  dear 
little  folded  paper,  so  expressive  of  your  kind  recollec 
tion.  I  positively  danced  for  joy ;  bestowed  a  thousand 
caresses  upon  every  body  and  every  thing  I  loved, 
dreamed  of  you  all  night,  and  arose  next  morning  (with 
a  heart  full,)  to  answer  your  letter,  but  was  prevented 
by  indisposition,  and  have  not  been  able  until  now  to 
perform  a  most  pleasing  duty  by  acknowledging  its 
receipt.  My  health  during  the  past  winter  has  been 
much  better  than  we  had  anticipated.  It  is  true  I  have 
been  with  dear  mother,  entirely  confined  to  the  house, 
but  being  able  to  read,  write  and  perform  all  my  usual 
employments,  I  feel  that  I  have  much  more  reason 
to  be  thankful  for  the  blessings  continued  to  me,  than 
to  repine  because  a  few  have  been  denied.  But  spring 
is  now  here  in  name,  if  not  in  reality,  and  I  can  assure 
you  my  heart  bounds  at  the  thought  of  once  more 
escaping  from  my  confinement,  and  breathing  the  pure 
air  of  Heaven,  without  fearing  a  blight  or  a  consump 
tion  in  every  breeze.  Spring!  What  pleasure  does  that 
magic  syllable  convey  to  the  heart  of  an  invalid,  laden 

8 


106  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

with  sweet  promises,  and  bringing  before  his  mind 
visions  of  liberty,  which  those  who  are  always  free 
cannot  enjoy.  Thus  do  I  dream  of  summer,  I  may 
never  see,  arid  make  myself  happy  for  hours  in  antici 
pating  pleasures  I  may  never  share.  It  is  an  idle  em 
ployment,  and  little  calculated  to  sweeten  disappoint 
ment.  But  it  has  opened  to  me  many  sources  of  de 
light  otherwise  unknown ;  and  when  out  of  humor  with 
the  present,  I  have  only  to  send  fancy  flower  gather 
ing  in  the  future,  and  I  find  myself  fully  repaid.  Dear 
mother's  health  has  also  been  much  better  than  we  had 
feared,  and  her  ill  turns  less  frequent  and  severe.  She 
sits  up  most  of  the  day,  walks  around  the  lower  part 
of  the  house,  and  enjoys  her  book  and  her  pen  as  much 
as  ever.  *  *  *  *  *  *  You  speak  of  your  intercourse 
with  Mrs.  Jameson.  It  must  indeed  be  an  exquisite 
pleasure  to  be  intimately  associated  with  a  mind  like 
hers.  I  have  never  seen  anything  but  extracts  from 
her  writings  but  must  obtain  and  read  them.  I  sup 
pose  the  world  is  anxiously  looking  for  her  next  vol 
ume.  *  *  *  We  have  been  reading  Lockhart's  Life 
of  Scott.  Is  it  not  a  deeply  interesting  work?  In  what 
a  beautiful  light  it  represents  the  character  of  that  great 
and  good  man.  No  one  can  read  his  life  or  his  works 
without  loving  and  venerating  him.  As  to  "  the  waters 
of  Helicon"  we  have  but  a  few  niggardly  streams  in 
this,  our  matter  of  fact  village;  and  father  in  his  medi 
cal  capacity  has  forbidden  my  partaking  of  them  as 
freely  as  I  could  wish.  But  no  matter,  they  have  been 
frozen  up, and  will  flow  in  "streams more  salubrious" 
beneath  the  milder  sky  of  spring. 

In  all  her  letters  we  find  a  solicitude  about  her 


BIOGRAPHY.  107 

mother's  health,  rather  than  about  her  own,  and  indeed 
it  was  difficult  to  say  which  was  most  precarious. 

The  following  extract  from  a  poem  written  about 
this  time  to  "  Her  mother  on  her  fiftieth  Birth-day"  pre 
sents  a  beautiful  portrait,  and  does  honor  to  the  filial 
hand  that  drew  it. 

Yes,  mother,  fifty  years  have  fled, 
With  rapid  foot-steps,  o'er  thy  head: 
Have  past  with  all  their  motley  train, 
And  left  thee  on  thy  couch  of  pain! 
How  many  smiles  and  sighs  and  tears, 
How  many  hopes  and  doubts  and  fears 
Have  vanish'd  with  that  lapse  of  years. 

Oh  that  we  all  could  look,  like  thee, 
Back  on  that  dark  and  tidcless  sea, 
And  'mid  its  varied  records  find 
A  heart  at  ease  with  all  mankind, 
A  firm  and  self-approving  mind. 
Grief  that  had  broken  hearts  less  fine 
Hath  only  served  to  strengthen  thine — 

Time  that  doth  chill  the  fancy's  play 
Hath  kindled  thine  with  purer  ray: 
And  stern  disease,  whose  icy  dart 
Hath  power  to  chill  the  breaking  heart, 
Hath  left  thine  warm  with  love  and  truth 
As  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 

The  following  letter  was  written  on  the  26th  of 
March,  to  a  female  cousin  resident  in  New  York. 

DEAR  KATE:  This  day  I  am  fifteen,  and  you  can, 
you  will  readily  pardon  and  account  for  the  absurd 
flights  of  my  pen,  by  supposing  that  my  tutelary 
spirits,  nonsense  and  folly,  have  assembled  around  the 
being  of  their  creation,  and  claimed  the  day  as  exclu- 


108  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

sively  their  own;  then  I  pray  you  to  lay  to  their  ac- 
rount,  all  that  I  have  already  scribbled,  and  believe 
that,  uninfluenced  by  these  grinning  deities,  I  can 
think  and  feel,  and  love,  as  I  love  you  with  all  warmth 
and  sincerity  of  heart.  Do  you  remember  how  we 
used  to  look  forward  to  sweet  fifteen,  as  the  pinnacle 
of  human  happiness,  the  golden  age  of  existence? 
You  have  but  lately  passed  that  milestone  in  the  high 
way  of  life;  I  have  just  reached  it,  but  I  find  myself 
no  better  satisfied  to  stand  still  than  before,  and  look 
forward  to  the  continuance  of  my  journey,  with  the 
same  ardent  longing  I  felt  at  fourteen. 

Ah,  Kate,  here  we  are,  two  young  travellers  start 
ing  forth  upon  our  long  pilgrimage,  and  knowing  not 
whither  it  may  conduct  us!  You  some  months  my 
superior  in  age,  and  many  years  in  acquaintance  with 
society,  in  external  attractions,  and  all  those  accom 
plishments  necessary  to  form  an  elegant  woman.  /, 
knowing  nothing  of  life  but  from  books,  and  a  small 
circle  of  friends,  who  love  me  as  I  love  them,  looking 
upon  \\\Q  past  as  a  faded  dream,  which  I  shall  have 
time  enough  to  study,  and  expound,  when  old  age 
and  sorrow  come  on — upon  the  present  as  a  nurse 
ling — a  preparative  for  the  future,  and  upon  that 
future,  as  what?  a  mighty  whirlpool,  of  hopes  and 
fears  of  bright  anticipations  and  bitter  disappoint 
ments  into  which  I  shall  soon  plunge,  and  find  there, 
in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  my  happiness 
or  misery.  ***** 

The  following  to  a  young  friend,  was  also  written 
on  the  26th  of  March. 

MY  DEAR  H.:   You  must  know  that  winter  has 


BIOGRAPHY.  109 

come,  and  gone,  and  neither  mother  nor  myself  have 
felt  a  single  breeze  which  could  not  force  its  way 
through  the  thick  walls  of  our  little  dwelling.  Do 
you  not  think  I  am  looking  gladly  forward  to  April 
and  May,  as  the  lovely  sisters  who  are  to  unlock  the 
doors  of  our  prison  house,  and  give  us  once  more  to 
the  free  enjoyment  of  nature,  without  fearing  a  blight 
or  a  consumption  in  every  breath?  And  now  for 
another,  and  even  more  delightful  anticipation — your 
visit!  Are  you  indeed  coming?  And  when  are  you 
coming?  Do  answer  the  first  that  I  may  for  once  have 
the  pleasure  of  framing  delightful  visions  without 
finding  them  dashed  to  the  ground  by  the  iron  hand 
of  reality,  and  the  last,  that  I  may  not  expect  you  too 
soon,  and  thus  subject  myself  to  all  the  bitterness  of 
"  hope  deferred."  Come,  for  I  have  so  much  to  say 
to  you,  that  I  cannot  possibly  contain  it  until  summer; 
and  come  quickly,  unless  you  are  willing  to  account 
for  my  wasted  time  as  well  as  your  own,  for  I  shall 
do  little  else  but  dream  of  you  and  your  visit  until  the 
time  of  your  arrival.  You  cannot  imagine  how  those 
few  words  in  your  little  good  for  nothing  letter  have 
completely  upset  my  wonted  gravity.  Do  not  disap 
point  me.  It  is  true,  mother  and  I  are  both  feeble 
and  unable  to  go  out  with  you  and  show  you  the 
lions  of  our  little  village,  but  if  warm  welcomes  can 
atone  for  the  want  of  ceremony,  you  shall  have  them 
in  abundance,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  shall  want  to 
pin  you  down  in  a  chair  and  do  nothing  but  look  at 
you  from  morning  till  night.  As  to  coming  to  Platts- 
burgh,  I  think  if  we  cannot  do  so  in  the  spring,  (which 
is  doubtful,)  we  certainly  shall  in  the  course  of  the 
summer.  Brother  M.  wrote  to  me  yesterday,  saying 


110  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

that  he  would  spend  the  month  of  August  in  the 
country,  and  if  nothing  occurred  to  prevent,  we  would 
take  our  delightful  trip  by  the  way  of  Lake  George. 
Oh  it  will  be  so  pleasant !  but  my  anticipations  are 
now  all  bent  upon  a  nearer  object.  Do  not  allow  a 
slight  impediment  to  destroy  them.  We  expect  in 
May  to  move  to  Saratoga.  We  shall  then  have  a 
more  convenient  house,  better  society,  and  the  benefit 
of  a  school  in  which  I  can  practise  music  and  draw 
ing,  without  being  obliged  to  attend  regularly.  We 
shall  then  be  a  few  miles  nearer  to  you,  and  at  pre 
sent  even  that  seems  something  desirable  to  me.  I 
have  read  and  own  three  volumes  of  Scott's  life,  and 
was  much  disappointed  to  find  that  it  was  not  finished 
in  these  three,  but  concluded  the  remainder  had  not 
yet  come  out.  Are  the  five  volumes  all?  It  is  indeed 
a  deeply  interesting  work.  I  am  very  fond  of  biogra 
phy,  for  surely  there  can  be  nothing  more  delightful 
or  instructive  than  to  trace  in  the  infancy  and  youth 
of  every  noble  rnind  the  germs  of  its  future  greatness. 
Have  you  read  a  work  called  Letters  from  Palmyra, 
by  Mr.  Ware  of  New  York?  I  have  not  yet  seen  it, 
but  intend  to  do  so  soon.  It  is  written  in  the  character 
of  a  citizen  of  Rome  at  that  early  period,  and  it  is  said 
to  be  a  lively  picture  of  the  manners  and  customs  of 
the  imperial  city,  and  still  more  of  the  magnificence  of 
Palmyra,  and  its  splendid  queen  Zenobia.  It  also 
contains  a  beautiful  story.  I  have  lately  been  re- 
perusing  many  of  Scott's  novels,  and  intend  to  finish 
them.  Was  ever  any  thing  half  so  fascinating?  Oh 
how  I  long  to  have  you  here  and  tell  you  all  these 
little  things  in  person.  Do  write  to  me  immediately, 
and  tell  me  when  we  may  expect  you,  I  shall  open 


BIOGRAPHY.  Ill 

your  next  with  a  beating  heart.  Do  excuse  all  the 
blunders  and  scrawls  of  this  hasty  letter.  You  must 
receive  it  as  a  proof  of  friendship,  for  to  a  stranger,  or 
one  who  I  thought  would  look  upon  it  with  a  cold 
and  critical  eye,  I  certainly  should  not  send  it.  I  be 
lieve  you  and  I  have  entered  into  a  tacit  agreement 
to  forgive  any  little  mistakes,  which  the  other  may 
chance  to  commit. 

Croyez  moi  ma  chere  amie  votre. 

MARGUERITE. 

The  spirits  of  this  most  sensitive  little  being  became 
more  and  more  excited  with  the  opening  of  spring. 
"  She  watched,"  says  her  mother, "  the  putting  forth  of 
the  tender  grass  and  the  young  blossoms  as  the  period 
which  was  to  liberate  her  from  captivity.  She  was 
pleased  with  every  body  and  every  thing.  She  loved 
every  thing  in  nature,  both  animate  and  inanimate, 
with  a  warmth  of  affection  which  displayed  the  bene 
volence  of  her  own  heart.  She  felt  that  she  was  well, 
and  oh!  the  bright  dreams  and  imaginings,  the  cloud 
less  future,  presented  to  her  ardent  mind — all  was 
sunny  and  gay." 

The  following  letter  is  highly  expressive  of  the  state 
of  her  feelings  at  that  period. 

"  A  few  days  since,  my  dearest  cousin,  I  received  your 
affectionate  letter,  arid  if  my  heart  smote  me  at  the  sight 
of  the  well  known  superscription,  you  may  imagine 
how  unmercifully  it  thumped  on  reading  a  letter  so 
full  of  affection,  and  so  entirely  devoid  of  reproach  for 
my  unkindly  negligence.  I  can  assure  you,  my  dear 
coz.,  you  could  have  found  no  better  way  of  striking 
home  to  my  heart  the  conviction  of  my  error;  and  I 


112  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

resolved  that  hour,  that  moment,  to  lay  my  confessions 
at  your  feet,  and  sue  for  forgiveness:  I  knew  you  were 
too  gentle  to  refuse.  But  alas!  for  human  resolves! 
We  were  that  afternoon  expecting  brother  M.  Dear 
brother!  And  how  could  [collect  my  floating  thoughts 
and  curl  myself  up  into  a  corner  with  pen,  ink  and  pa 
per  before  me,  when  my  heart  was  flying  away  over 
the  sand  hills  of  this  un-romantic  region  to  meet  and 
embrace  and  welcome  home  the  wanderer.  If  it  can 
interest  you,  picture  to  yourself  the  little  scene;  mother 
and  I  breathless  with  expectation,  gazing  from  the 
window,  in  mute  suspense,  and  listening  to  the  "phiz, 
phiz"  of  the  great  steam  engine.  Then  when  we  caught 
a  rapid  glance  of  his  trim  little  figure,  how  we  bounded 
away  over  chairs,  sofas,  and  kittens,  to  bestow  in 
reality,  the  greeting  fancy  had  so  often  given  him. 
Oh!  what  is  so  delightful  as  to  welcome  a  friend!  Well, 
three  days  have  passed  like  a  dream,  and  he  is  gone 
again.  I  am  seated  at  my  little  table  by  the  fire. 
Mother  is  sewing  beside  me.  Puss  is  slumbering  on 
the  hearth,  and  nothing  external  remains  to  convince 
us  of  the  truth  of  that  bright  sun-beam  which  had  sud 
denly  broken  upon  our  quiet  retreat,  and  departed  like 
a  vision  as  suddenly.  When  shall  we  have  the  pleasure 
of  welcoming  you  thus,  my  beloved  cousin?  Your 
flying  call  of  last  summer  was  but  an  aggravation. 
Oh!  may  all  good  angels  watch  over  you  and  all  you 
love;  shake  the  dew  of  health  from  their  balmy  wings 
upon  your  smiling  home,  and  waft  you  hither,  cheer 
ful  and  happy,  to  sojourn  awhile  with  the  friends  who 
love  you  so  dearly!  All  hail  to  spring,  the  bright,  the 
blooming,  the  renovating  spring!  Oh!  I  am  so  hap 
py — I  feel  a  lightness  at  my  heart,  and  a  vigor  in  my 


BIOGRAPHY.  113 

frame  that  I  have  rarely  felt.  If  I  speak,  my  voice 
forms  itself  into  a  laugh.  If  I  look  forward,  every  thing 
seems  bright  before  me.  If  I  look  back,  memory  calls 
up  what  is  pleasant,  and  my  greatest  desire  is  that  my 
pen  could  fling  a  ray  of  sunshine  over  this  scribbled 
page  and  infuse  into  your  heart  some  of  the  cheerful 
ness  of  my  own.  I  have  been  confined  to  the  house 
all  winter,  as  it  was  thought  the  best  and  only  way 
of  restoring  my  health.  Now  my  symptoms  are  all 
better,  and  I  am  looking  forward  to  next  month  and 
its  blue  skies  with  the  most  childish  impatience.  By 
the  way,  I  am  not  to  be  called  a  child  any  more;  for 
yesterday  I  was  fifteen,  what  say  you  to  that?  I  feel 
quite  like  an  old  woman,  and  think  of  putting  on  caps 
and  spectacles  next  month." 

It  was  during  the  same  exuberance  of  happy  feel 
ing,  with  the  delusive  idea  of  confirmed  health  and  the 
anticipation  of  bright  enjoyments,  that  she  broke  forth 
like  a  bird  into  the  following  strain  of  melody. 

Oh,  my  bosom  is  throbbing-  with  joy, 

With  a  rapture  too  full  to  express; 
From  within  and  without  I  am  blest, 

And  the  world,  like  myself,  I  would  bless. 

All  nature  looks  fair  to  my  eye, 

From  beneath  and  around  and  above, 
Hope  smiles  in  the  clear  azure  sky, 

And  the  broad  earth  is  glowing  with  love. 

I  stand  on  the  threshold  of  life, 

On  the  shore  of  its  wide  rolling1  sea, 
I  have  heard  of  its  storms  and  its  strife 

But  all  things  are  tranquil  to  me, 

There's  a  veil  o'er  the  future — 'tis  bright 
As  the  wing  of  a  spirit  of  air, 


114  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  each  form  of  enchantment  and  light 
Is  trembling  in  Iris  hues  there. 

I  turn  to  the  world  of  affection, 

And  warm,  glowing  treasures  are  mine; 

To  the  past,  and  my  fond  recollection 
Gathers  roses  from  memory's  shrine. 

But  oh,  there's  a  fountain  of  joy 
More  rich  than  a  kingdom  beside, 

It  is  holy — death  cannot  destroy 
The  flow  of  its  heavenly  tide. 

'Tis  the  love  that  is  gushing  within, 

It  would  bathe  the  whole  world  in  its  light; 

The  cold  stream  of  time  shall  not  quench  it, 
The  dark  frown  of  wo  shall  not  blight. 

These  visions  of  pleasure  may  vanish, 
These  bright  dreams  of  youth  disappear, 

Disappointment  each  air  hue  may  banish, 
And  drown  each  frail  joy  in  a  tear. 

I  may  plunge  in  the  billows  of  life, 
I  may  taste  of  its  dark  cup  of  wo, 

I  may  weep,  and  the  sad  drops  of  grief 
May  blend  with  the  waves  as  they  flow. 

I  may  dream,  till  reality's  shadow 
O'er  the  light  form  of  fancy  is  cast; 

I  may  hope,  until  hope,  too,  despairing 
Has  crept — to  the  grave  of  the  past. 

But  though  the  wild  waters  surround  me, 
Misfortune,  temptation  and  sin, 

Though  fear  be  about  and  beyond  me 
And  sorrow's  dark  shadow  within. 

Though  age,  with  an  icy  cold  finger, 
May  stamp  his  pale  seal  on  my  brow — 

Still,  still  in  my  bosom  shall  linger 
The  glow  that  is  warming  it  now. 


BIOGRAPHY.  115 

Youth  will  vanish,  and  pleasure — gay  charmer, 

May  depart  on  the  wings  of  to-day, 
But  that  spot  in  my  heart  shall  grow  warmer, 

As  year  after  year  rolls  away. 

"  While  her  spirits  were  thus  light  and  gay,"  says 
Mrs.  Davidson,  "from  the  prospect  of  returning 
health,  my  more  mature  judgment  told  me  that  those 
appearances  might  be  deceptive — that  even  now  the 
destroyer  might  be  making  sure  his  work  of  destruc 
tion;  but  she  really  seemed  better,  the  cough  had  sub 
sided,  her  step  was  buoyant,  her  face  glowed  with 
animation,  her  eye  was  bright,  and  love,  boundless, 
universal  love  seemed  to  fill  her  young  heart.  Every 
symptom  of  her  disease  assumed  a  more  favorable 
cast.  Oh  how  my  heart  swelled  with  the  mingled 
emotions  of  hope,  doubt  and  gratitude.  Our  hopes 
of  her  ultimate  recovery  seemed  to  be  founded  upon 
reason,  yet  her  father  still  doubted  the  propriety  of 
our  return  to  lake  Champlain;  and  as  Saratoga  held 
out  many  more  advantages  than  Ballston  as  a  tem 
porary  residence,  he  decided  to  spend  the  ensuing  year 
or  two  there;  and  then  we  might  perhaps,  without 
much  risk,  return  to  our  much  loved  and  long  deserted 
home  on  the  banks  of  the  Saranac.  Accordingly  a 
house  was  taken  and  every  preparation  made  for  our 
removal  to  Saratoga  on  the  first  of  May.  Margaret 
was  pleased  with  the  arrangement." 

The  following  playful  extract  of  a  letter  to  her 
brother  in  New  York,  exhibits  her  feelings  on  the 
prospect  of  their  change  of  residence. 

I  now  most  humbly  avail  myself  of  your  most 
gracious  permission  to  scribble  you  a  few  lines  in 
token  of  my  everlasting  love.  "  This  is  to  inform 


116  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

you  I  am  very  well,  hoping  these  few  lines  will  find 
you  in  possession  of  the  same  blessing" — notwith 
standing  the  blue  streaks  that  flitted  over  your  path 
way  a  few  days  after  you  left  us.  Perhaps  it  was 
occasioned  by  remorse,  at  the  cruelty  of  your  parting 
speech,  perhaps  it  was  the  reflection  of  a  bright  blue 
eye,  upon  the  deep  waters  of  your  soul,  but  let  the 
cause  be  what  it  may,  "  black  spirits  or  white — blue 
spirits  or  grey,"  I  hope  the  effect  has  entirely  disap 
peared,  and  you  are  no  longer  tinged  with  its  most 
doleful  shadow.  A  blue  sky,  a  blue  eye,  or  the  blue 
dye  of  the  violet,  are  all  undeniably  beautiful,  but 
this  tint  when  transferred  from  the  works  of  nature 
to  the  brow  of  man,  or  the  stockings  of  woman,  be 
comes  a  thing  to  ridicule  or  weep  at.  May  your 
spirits  henceforth,  my  dear  brother,  be  preserved  from 
this  ill-omened  influence,  and  may  your  feet  and 
ankles  never  be  graced  with  garments  of  a  hue  so 
repulsive.  Oh,  brother,  we  are  all  in  the  heat  of 
moving;  we — I  say,  you  will  account  for  the  use  of 
that  personal  pronoun  on  the  authority  of  the  old 
proverb,  "  What  a  dust  we  flies  raise,"  for,  to  be 
frank  with  you,  I  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  it, 
but  poor  mother  is  over  head  and  ears  in  boxes,  bed 
clothes,  carpets,  straw  and  discussions.  Our  hall  is 
already  filled  with  the  fruits  of  her  labours  and  perse 
verance,  in  the  shape  of  certain  blue  chests,  carpet 
cases,  trunks,  boxes,  &c.,  all  ready  for  a  move.  Dear 
mother  is  head,  hand  and  feet  for  the  whole  machine; 
our  two  helps  being  nothing  but  cranks,  which  turn 
when  you  touch  them,  and  cease  their  rotary  move 
ment  when  the  force  is  withdrawn.  Heigho.  We 
miss  our  good  C ,  with  her  quick  invention  and 


BIOGRAPHY.  IIT 

helpful  hand.  *****  Oh  my  dear  brother,  I  am 
anticipating  so  much  pleasure  next  summer,  I  hope  it 
will  not  all  prove  a  dream.  It  will  be  so  delightful 
when  you  come  lip  in  August  and  bring  cousin 

K with  you;  tell  her  I  am  calculating  upon  this 

pleasure  with  all  my  powers  of  fore-enjoyment — tell 
her  also,  that  I  am  waiting  most  impatiently  for  that 
annihilating  letter  of  hers,  and  if  it  does  not  come 
soon,  I  shall  send  her  another  cannonade,  ere  she  has 
recovered  the  stunning  effects  of  the  first.  Oh  dear! 
I  have  written  you  a  most  dis-understandable  letter, 
and  now  you  must  excuse  me,  as  I  have  declared  war 
against  M ,  and  after  mending  my  pen,  must  col 
lect  all  my  scattered  ideas  into  a  fleet,  and  launch 
them  for  a  combat  upon  a  whole  sea  of  ink. 

"  The  exuberance  of  her  spirit,"  says  her  mother, 
"  as  the  spring  advanced,  and  she  was  enabled  once 
more  to  take  exercise  in  the  open  air,  displayed  itself 
in  every  thing.  Her  heart  was.overflowing  with  thank 
fulness  and  love.  Every  fine  day  in  the  latter  part  of 
April,  she  either  rode  on  horseback  or  drove  out  in  a 
carriage.  All  nature  looked  lovely  to  her,  not  a  tree 
or  shrub  but  conveyed  some  poetical  image  or  moral 
lesson  to  her  mind.  The  moment,  however,  that  she 
began  to  take  daily  exercise  in  the  open  air,  I  again 
heard  with  agony  the  prophetic  cough.  I  felt  that  all 
was  over!  She  thought  that  she  had  taken  cold,  and 
our  friends  were  of  the  same  opinion.  i  It  was  a 
slight  cold  which  would  vanish  beneath  the  mild  in 
fluence  of  spring.'  I,  however,  feared  that  her  father's 
hopes  might  have  blinded  his  judgment,  and  upon  my 
own  responsibility  consulted  a  skillful  physician,  who 
had  on  many  former  occasions  attended  her.  She  was 


118  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

not  aware  of  my  present  alarm,  or  that  the  physician 
was  now  consulted.  He  managed  in  a  playful  man 
ner  to  feel  her  pulse,  without  her  suspicions.  After 
he  had  left  the  room,  'Madam/  said  he,  ' it  is  use 
less  to  hold  out  any  false  hopes,  your  daughter  has  a 
seated  consumption,  which  is,  I  fear,  beyond  the  reach 
of  medical  skill.  There  is  no  hope  in  the  case,  make 
her  as  happy  and  as  comfortable  as  you  can;  iet  her 
enjoy  riding  in  pleasant  weather,  but  her  walks  must 
be  given  up;  walking  is  too  great  an  exertion  for  her.' 
With  an  aching  heart  I  returned  to  the  lovely  uncon 
scious  victim,  and  found  her  tying  on  her  hat  for  a 
ramble.  I  gently  tried  to  dissuade  her  from  going. 
She  caught  rny  eye,  and  read  there  a  tale  of  grief, 
which  she  could  not  understand,  and  I  could  not  ex 
plain.  As  soon  as  I  dared  trust  my  voice,  I  said  '  my 
dear  Margaret,  nothing  has  happened,  only  I  have 

just  been  speaking  with  Dr. ,  respecting  you,  and 

he  advises  that  you  give  up  walking  altogether. 
Knowing  how  much  you  enjoy  it,  I  am  pained  to 
mention  this,  for  I  know  that  it  will  be  a  great  priva 
tion.'  '  Why,  mamma,'  she  exclaimed,  '  this  cold  is 
wearing  off,  may  I  not  walk  then?'  t  The  Doctor 
thinks  you  should  make  no  exertion  of  that  kind,  but 
riding  in  fine  weather  may  have  a  happy  effect.'  She 
stood  and  gazed  upon  my  face  long  and  earnestly; 
then  untied  her  hat  and  sat  down,  apparently  rumi 
nating  upon  what  had  past;  she  asked  no  questions, 
but  an  expression  of  thoughtfulness  clouded  her  brow 
during  the  rest  of  the  day.  It  was  settled  that  she 
was  to  ride  out  in  fine  weather,  but  not  to  walk  out 
at  all,  and  in  a  day  or  two  she  seemed  to  have  forgot 
ten  the  circumstance  altogether.  The  return  of  the 


BIOGRAPHY.  119 

cough,  and  profuse  night  perspirations,  too  plainly 
told  me  her  doom,  but  I  still  clung  to  the  hope,  that, 
as  she  suffered  no  pain,  she  might,  by  tender  judicious 
treatment,  continue  yet  for  years.  I  urged  her  to  re 
mit  her  labours;  she  saw  how  much  my  heart  was  in 
the  request,  and  promised  to  comply  with  my  wishes. 
On  the  first  of  May  we  removed  to  Saratoga.  One 
short  half  hour  in  the  railroad  car  completed  the 
journey,  and  she  arrived  fresh,  cheerful  and  blooming, 
in  her  appearance,  such  an  effect  had  the  excitement 
of  pleasure  upon  her  lovely  face." 

On  the  day  we  left  Ballston  she  wrote  a  "  Parting 
Word"  to  Mrs.  I!.,  who  had  been  one  of  our  most 
intimate  and  affectionate  visitors  throughout  the  win 
ter,  and  whose  husband  had  assisted  her  much  in  her 
studies  of  moral  philosophy,  as  well  as  delighted  her 
by  his  varied  and  instructive  conversation. 

A  PARTING  WORD  TO  MY  DEAR  MRS.  H. 

BALLSTON  SPA,  April  30,  1838. 

At  length  the  awful  morn  hath  come, 

The  parting  hour  is  nigh, 
And  I  sit  down  'mid  dust  and  gloom, 

To  bid  you  brief  "  good  bye." 

Each  voice  to  fancy's  listening  ear, 

Repeats  the  doleful  cry, 
And  the  bare  walls  and  sanded  floor, 

Re-echo  back  "  good  bye." 

So  must  it  be !  but  many  a  thought 

Comes  crowding  on  my  mind, 
Of  the  dear  friends,  the  happy  hours, 

The  joys  we  leave  behind. 


120  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

How  we  shall  miss  your  cheerful  face, 

Forever  bright  and  smiling, 
And  your  sweet  voice  so  often  heard, 

Our  weary  hours  beguiling ! 

How  shall  we  miss  the  kindly  hearts, 
Which  none  can  know  unloving, 

Whose  thoughts  and  feelings  none  can  read, 
Nor  find  his  own  improving ! 

And  he,  whose  converse,  hour  by  hour, 
Hath  lent  old  Time  new  pinions, 

Whose  hand  hath  drawn  the  shadowy  veil 
From  wisdom's  broad  dominions. 

Whose  voice  hath  poured  forth  priceless  gems, 
Scarce  conscious  that  he  taught, 

Whose  mind  of  broad,  ofloftiest  reach, 
Hath  showered  down  thought  on  thought 

True  we  may  meet  with  many  a  dear 

And  cherished  friend,  but  yet 
Oft  shall  we  cast  a  backward  glance 

Of  wistful — vain  regret. 

When  evening  spreads  her  sombre  veil, 

To  fold  the  slumbering  earth, 
When  our  small  circle  closes  round 

The  humble,  social  hearth — 

Oft  shall  we  dream  of  hours  gone  by, 

And  con  these  moments  o'er, 
'Till  we  half  bend  our  ears  to  catch 

Your  footsteps  at  the  door. 
And  then  turn  back  and  sigh  to  think 

We  hear  those  steps  no  more  ! 

But  tho'  these  dismal  thoughts  arise, 

Hope  makes  me  happy  still, 
There  is  a  drop  of  comfort  lurks, 

In  every  draught  of  ill! 


BIOGRAPHY.  121 

By  pain  and  care  each  joy  of  earth 

More  exquisite  is  made, 
And  when  we  meet  the  parting  grief 

Shall  doubly  b$  o'erpaid. 

In  disappointments  deep  too  quick 

Our  fairest  prospects  drown, 
Let  not  this  hope,  which  blooms  so  bright, 

Be  wither'd  at  his  frown  ! 

Come,  and  a  mother's  pallid  cheek 

Shall  brighten  at  your  smile, 
And  her  poor  frame  so  faint  and  weak, 

Forget  its  pains  the  while. 

Come,  and  a  glad  and  happy  heart, 

Shall  give  the  welcome  kiss, 
And  puss  shall  purr,  and  frisk  and  mew, 

In  token  of  her  bliss. 

Come !  and  behold  how  I  improve, 

In  dusting — cleaning — sweeping, 
And  I  will  hear,  with  patient  ear, 

Your  lectures  on  house-keeping. 

And  now,  may  all  good  Angels  guard, 

Your  path  where'er  it  lie, 
May  peace  reign  monarch  in  your  breast, 

And  gladness  in  your  eye. 

And  may  the  dews  of  health  descend, 

On  him  you  cherish  best, 
To  his  worn  frame  their  influence  lend, 

And  calm  each  nerve  to  rest! 

And  may  we  meet  again !  nor  feel 

The  parting  hour  so  nigh, 
Peace,  love  and  happiness  to  all, 

Once  more — once  more,  "  good  bye  !" 

"She  interested  herself"  continued  Mrs.  Davidson, 
"  more  than  I  had  anticipated  in  the  arrangement  of 
our  new  habitation  arid  in  forming  plans  of  future 

9 


122  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

enjoyment  with  our  friends,  when  they  should  visit 
us;  I  exerted  myself  to  please  her  taste  in  everything, 
although  she  was  prohibited  from  making  the  slightest 
physical  exertion  herself.  The  house  settled,  then 
came  the  flower  garden,  in  which  she  spent  more  time 
than  I  thought  prudent:  but  she  was  so  happy  while 
thus  engaged  and  the  weather  being  fine,  and  the 
gardener  disposed  to  gratify  her  and  carry  all  her  little 
plans  into  effect;  I,  like  a  weak  mother,  wanted  reso 
lution  to  interfere,  and  have  always  reproached  myself 
for  it  although  not  conscious  that  it  was  an  injury  at 
the  time.  Her  brother  had  invited  her  to  return  to 
New  York  with  him  when  he  came  to  visit  us  in 
June,  and  she  was  not  impatiently  counting  the  days 
until  his  arrival.  Her  feelings  are  portrayed  in  a 
letter  to  her  young  friend  H." 

SARATOGA,  June  1,  1838. 

June  is  at  last  with  us,  my  dear  cousin,  and 
the  blue-eyed  goddess  could  not  have  looked  upon 
the  green  bosom  of  her  mother  earth,  attired  in  a 
lovelier  or  more  enchanting  robe.  I  am  seated  by  an 
open  window,  and  the  breeze  laden  with  the  perfumes 
of  the  blossoms  and  opening  leaves  just  lifts  the  edge 
of  my  sheet — and  steals  with  the  gentlest  footsteps 
imaginable  to  fan  my  cheek  and  forehead.  The  grass 
tinged  with  the  deepest  and  freshest  green  is  waving 
beneath  its  influence;  the  birds  are  singing  their  sweet 
est  songs;  and  as  I  look  into  the  depths  of  the  clear 
blue  sky  the  rich  tints  appear  to  flit  higher  and  higher 
as  I  gaze,  till  my  eye  seems  searching  into  immea 
surable  distance.  Oh !  such  a  day  as  this,  it  is  a  luxury 
to  breathe.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  frisk  and  gambol  like 


BIOGRAPHY.  123 

my  kitten  from  the  mere  consciousness  of  life.  Yet 
with  all  the  loveliness  around  me  I  reperuse  your  letter, 
and  long  for  wings^to  fly  from  it  all  to  the  dull  atmos 
phere  and  crowded  highways  of  the  city.  Yes!  I 
could  then  look  into  your  eyes  and  I  should  forget  the 
blue  sky;  and  your  smile,  and  your  voice  would  doubly 
compensate  me  for  the  loss  of  green  trees  and  singing 
birds.  There  are  green  trees  in  the  heart  which  shed 
a  softer  perfume,  and  birds  which  sing  more  sweetly. 
"Nonsense,  Mag  is  growing  sentimental;"  I  knew 
you  would  say  so,  but  the  streak  came  across  me  and 
you  have  it  at  full  length.  In  plainer  terms,  how  de 
lighted,  how  more  than  delighted  I  shall  be  when  I 
do  come!  when  I  do  come,  Kate!  oh!  oh!  oh!  what 
would  our  language  be  without  interjections,  those 
expressive  parts  of  speech  which  say  so  much  in  so 
small  a  compass.  Now  I  am  sure  you  can  under 
stand  from  these  three  syllables  all  the  pleasure,  the 
rapture  I  anticipate;  the  meeting,  the  parting,  all  the 
component  parts  of  that  great  whole  which  I  denomi 
nate  a  visit  to  New  York!  No  not  to  New  York! 
but  to  the  few  dear  friends  whose  society  will  afford 
me  all  the  enjoyment  I  expect  or  desire,  and  who,  in 
fact  constitute  all  my  New  York. 

June  3d.  I  had  written  thus  far,  dear  Kate,  when 
I  was  most  agreeably  interrupted  by  a  proposal  for  a 
ride  on  horseback;  my  sheet  slid  of  itself  into  the  open 
drawer,  my  hat  and  dress  flew  on  as  if  by  instinct,  and 
in  ten  minutes  I  was  galloping  full  speed  through  the 
streets  of  our  little  village  with  father  by  my  side.  1  rode 
till  nearly  tea  time  and  came  home  tired,  tired, tired:  Oh 
I  ache  to  think  of  it,  My  poor  letter  slept  all  night  as 
soundly  as  its  writer,  but  now  that  another  day  has 


124  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

dawned  the  very  opposite  of  its  predecessor,damp,dark 
and  rainy,  I  have  drawn  it  forth  from  its  receptacle,  and 
seek  to  dissipate  all  outward  gloom. by  communing  with 
one  the  thought  of  whom  conveys  to  my  mind  any  thing 
but  melancholy.  Oh,  Kate,  Kate,  in  spite  of  your  dis 
interested  and  sober  advice  to  the  contrary,  I  shall 
come,  I  shall  soon  come,  just  as  soon  as  M.  can  and 
will  run  up  for  me.  Yet  perhaps,  in  the  end  I  shall 
be  disappointed.  My  happy  anticipations%  resemble 
the  cloudless  sky  of  yesterday  and  who  knows  but  a 
stormy  to-morrow  may  erase  the  brilliant  tints  of  hope 
as  well  as  those  of  nature.  ******  DO  write  quickly 
and  tell  me  if  I  am  to  prepare,  if  you  continue  to  feel 
as  when  you  last  wrote  and  still  advise  me  not  to 
come — I  shall  dispose  of  your  advice  in  the  most  ap 
proved  manner,  throw  it  to  the  winds,  and  embark 
armed  and  equipped  for  your  city  to  make  my  destined 
visit,  and  fulfil  its  conditions  by  fair  means  or  foul  and 
bring  you  home  in  triumph.  Oh!  we  shall  have  fine 
times.  Oh  dear,  I  blush,  to  look  back  upon  my  sheet 
and  see  so  many  Ps  in  it. 

The  time  of  her  brother's  coming  drew  near.  He 
would  be  with  us  at  nine  in  the  morning.  At  eleven 
they  were  to  start.  I  prepared  all  for  her  departure 
with  my  own  hand,  lest,  should  I  trust  it  to  a  domestic 
to  make  the  arrangements,  she  would  make  some  ex 
ertion  herself.  She  sat  by  me  whilst  thus  engaged, 
relating  playful  anecdotes  until  I  urged  her  to  retire 
for  the  night.  On  going  into  her  room  an  hour  or  two 
afterwards,  I  was  alarmed  to  find  her  in  a  high  fever. 
About  midnight  she  was  taken  with  bleeding  at  the 
lungs.  I  flew  to  her  father,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
vein  was  opened  in  her  arm.  To  describe  our  feelings 


BIOGRAPHY.  125 

at  this  juncture  is  impossible.  We  stood,  gazing  at 
each  other  in  mute  despair.  After  that  shock  had  sub 
sided  her  father  retired,  and  I  seated  myself  by  the  bed 
side  to  watch  her  slumbers,  and  the  rising  sun  found 
me  still  at  my  post.  She  awoke,  pale,  feeble  and  ex 
hausted  by  the  debilitating  perspiration  which  attended 
her  sleep.  She  was  surprised  to  find  that  I  had  not 
been  in  bed;  but  when  she  attempted  to  speak  I  laid 
my  finger  upon  her  lips  and  desired  her  to  be  silent. 
She  understood  iny  motive,  and  when  I  bent  my  head 
to  Jdss  her,  1  saw  a  tear  upon  her  cheek.  I  told  her 
the  necessity  of  perfect  quiet,  and  the  danger  which 
would  result  from  agitation.  Before  her  brother  came 
she  desired  to  rise.  I  assisted  her  to  do  so,  and  he 
found  her  quietly  seated  in  her  easy  chair,  perfectly 
composed  in  manner,  and  determined  not  to  increase 
her  difficulties  by  giving  way  to  feelings  which  must 
at  that  time,  have  oppressed  her  heart.  My  son  was 
greatly  shocked  to  find  her  in  this  state.  I  met  him 
and  urged  the  importance  of  perfect  self-possession  on 
his  part,  as  any  sudden  agitation  might  in  her  present 
alarming  state  be  fatal.  Poor  fellow!  he  subdued  his 
feelings  and  met  her  with  a  cheerful  smile  which  con 
cealed  a  heart  almost  bursting  with  sorrow.  The  pro 
priety  of  her  taking  this  jaunt  had  been  discussed  by 
her  father  and  myself  for  a  number  of  weeks.  We 
both  thought  her  too  ill  to  leave  home,  but  her  strong 
desire  to  go,  the  impression  she  had  imbibed  that 
travelling  would  greatly  benefit  her  health,  and  the 
pleading  of  friends  in  her  behalf,  on  the  ground  that 
disappointment  would  have  a  more  unfavorable  effect 
than  the  journey  possibly  could  have,  all  had  their 
effect  in  leading  us  to  consent.  It  was  possible  it  might 


126  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

be  of  use  to  her,  although  it  was  at  best  an  experi 
ment  of  a  doubtful  nature.  But  this  attack  was  deci 
sive;  yet  caution  must  be  used  in  breaking  the  matter 
to  her  in  her  present  weak  stale.  Her  brother  stayed  a 
day  or  two  with  us,  and  then  returned,  telling  her  that 
when  she  was  able  to  perform  the  journey,  he  would 
come  again  and  take  her  with  him.  After  he  left  us,  she 
soon  regained  her  usual  strength,  and  in  a  fortnight  her 
brother  returned  and  took  her  to  New  York. 

The  anxiety  of  Mrs.  Davidson  was  intense  until  she 
received  her  first  letter.  It  was  written  from  New- 
York,  and  in  a  cheerful  vein,  speaking  encouragingly 
of  her  health,  but  showing  more  solicitude  about  the 
health  and  well  being  of  her  mother  than  of  her  own. 
She  continued  to  write  frequently,  giving  animated 
accounts  of  scenes  and  persons. 

The  following  extract  relates  to  an  excursion,  in 
company  with  two  of  her  brothers,  into  West  Chester 
county,  one  of  the  pleasantest,  and,  until  recently,  the 
least  fashionably  known,  regions  on  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson. 

"  At  three  o'clock,  we  were  in  the  Singsing  steamer, 
with  the  water  sparkling  below,  and  the  sun  broiling 
over  head.  In  the  course  of  our  sail  a  huge  thunder 
cloud  arose,  and  I  retreated,  quite  terrified  to  the 
cabin.  But  it  proved  a  refreshing  shower.  Oh!  how 
sweet,  how  delightful  the  air  was.  When  we  landed 
at  the  dock,  every  thing  looked  so  fresh  and  green. 
We  mounted  into  a  real  country  vehicle,  and  rattled 
up  the  hill  to  the  village  inn,  a  quiet,  pleasant  little 
house.  I  was  immediately  shown  to  my  room,  where 
I  stayed  until  tea-time,  enjoying  the  prospect  of  a 
splendid  sunset  upon  the  mountains,  and  resting  after 


BIOGRAPHY.  127 

the  fatigues  of  the  day.  At  seven,  we  drank  tea,  a 
meal  strongly  contrasted  with  the  fashionable  meagre 
unsocial  city  tea.  The  table  was  crowded  with  every 
thing  good,  in  the  rjaost  bountiful  style,  and  served 
with  the  greatest  attention  by  the  landlord's  pretty 
daughter.  I  retired  soon  after  tea,  and  slept  soundly 
until  day  break.  After  breakfast,  we  sent  for  a  car 
riage  to  take  us  along  the  course  of  the  Croton,  to  see 
the  famous  water  works,  but,  to  our  disappointment, 
every  carriage  was  engaged,  and  we  could  not  go. 
In  the  afternoon,  a  party  was  made  up  to  go  in  a  boat 
across  the  river,  and  ascend  a  mountain  to  a  singular 
lake  upon  its  summit,  where  all  the  implements  of 
fishing  were  provided,  and  a  collation  was  prepared. 
In  short,  it  was  a  pic-nic.  To  this  we  were  invited, 
but  on  learning  they  would  not  return  until  nine  or 
ten  in  the  evening,  that  scheme  also  was  abandoned. 
Towards  night  we  walked  around  the  village,  looked 
at  the  tunnel,  and  visited  the  ice-cream  man,  and  in 
spite  of  my  various  disappointments,  I  retired  quite 
happy  and  pleased  with  my  visit.  The  next  day  was 
Sunday,  and  we  proposed  going  to  the  little  Dutch 
church,  a  few  miles  distant,  arid  hearing  the  service 
performed  in  Dutch;  but  lo!  on  drawing  aside  my 
curtains  in  the  morning  it  rained,  and  we  were  obliged 
to  content  ourselves  as  well  as  we  could  until  the  rain 
was  over.  After  dinner  the  sun  again  peeped  out,  as 
if  for  our  especial  gratification,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
a  huge  country  waggon,  with  a  leathern  top  and  two 
sleek  horses  drew  up  to  the  door.  We  mounted  into 
it  and  away  we  rattled  over  the  most  beautiful  coun 
try  I  ever  saw.  Oh!  it  was  magnificent!  Every  now 
and  then  the  view  of  the  broad  Hudson,  with  its  distant 


128  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

hills,  and  the  clouds  resting  on  their  summits,  burst 
upon  our  view.  Now  we  would  ascend  a  lofty  hill, 
clothed  with  forests,  and  verdure  of  the  most  brilliant 
hues;  now  dash  down  into  a  deep  ravine,  with  a 
stream  winding  and  gurgling  along  its  bed,  Avith  its 
tiny  waves  rushing  over  the  wheel  of  some  rustic 
mill,  embosomed  in  its  shade  and  solitude.  Every 
now  and  then  the  gable  end  of  some  low  dutch  build 
ing  would  present  itself  before  us,  smiling  in  its  peace 
ful  stillness,  and  conveying  to  the  mind  a  perfect  pic 
ture  of  rural  simplicity  and  comfort,  although,  perhaps, 
of  ignorance.  At  length  we  paused  upon  the  summit 
of  a  gentle  hill,  and  judge  of  my  delight  when  I  beheld 
below  me,  the  old  Dutch  church,  the  quiet,  secluded* 
beautiful  little  church  yard,  the  running  stream,  the 
path,  and  the  rustic  bridge,  the  ever  memorable  scene 
of  Ichabod's  adventure  with  the  headless  horseman, 
There,  thought  I,  rushed  the  poor  pedagogue,  his 
knees  cramped  up  to  his  saddle-bow  with  fear,  his 
hands  grasping  his  horse's  mane,  with  convulsive 
energy,  in  the  hope  that  the  rising  stream  might  ar 
rest  the  progress  of  his  fearful  pursuer,  and  allow 
him  to  pass  in  safety.  Vain  hope  !  Scarce  had  he 
reached  the  bridge  when  he  heard,  rattling  behind 
him,  the  hoofs  of  his  fiendish  companion.  The  church 
seemed  in  a  blaze  to  his  bewildered  eyes,  and  urging 
on,  on,  he  turned  to  look  once  more,  when,  horror  of 
horrors!  the  head,  the  fearful  head,  was  in  the  act  of 
descending  upon  his  devoted  shoulders.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
I  never  laughed  so  in  my  life.  Well  we  rode  on 
through  the  scene  of  poor  Andre's  capture,  and  dashed 
along  the  classic  valleys  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  After  a 
long  and  delightful  drive,  we  returned  in  time  for  tea. 


BIOGRAPHY.  129 

After  tea  we  were  invited  into  Mrs.  F.'s  parlor, 
where,  after  a  short  time,  were  collected  quite  a  party 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen.  At  nine  we  were  served 
Avith  ice-cream,  wipe,  &c.  I  retired  very  much  pleased 
and  very  much  fatigued.  Early  in  the  morning  we 
rose  with  a  most  brilliant  sun,  breakfasted,  mounted 
once  more  into  the  waggon,  and  rattled  off  to  the 
dock.  Oh!  that  I  could  describe  to  you  how  fresh 
and  sweet  the  air  was.  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  to  open 
my  mouth  wide  and  inhale  it.  We  gave  M.  our 
parting  kisses,  and  soon  found  ourselves  once  more, 
after  this  charming  episode,  approaching  the  mighty 
city.  We  had  a  delightful  sail  of  two  or  three  hours, 
and  again  rode  up  to  dear  aunt  M.'s,  where  all  seemed 
glad  at  my  return.  I  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day 
in  resting  and  reading." 

In  these  artless  epistles,  continues  Mrs.  Davidson, 
there  is  much  of  character,  for  who  could  imagine  this 
constant  cheerfulness,  this  almost  forgetfulness  of  self, 
these  affectionate  endeavors,  by  her  sweetly  playful 
account  of  all  her  employments  while  absent,  to  dis 
pel  the  grief,  which  she  knew  was  preying  upon  my 
mind  on  account  of  her  illness.  Who  could  conceive 
the  pains  she  took  to  conceal  from  me  the  ravages, 
which  disease  was  daily  making  upon  her  form.  She 
was  never  heard  to  complain,  and  in  her  letters  to 
me,  she  hardly  alludes  to  her  illness.  The  friends  to 
whom  I  had  entrusted  her,  during  her  short  period  of 
absence,  sometimes  feared  that  she  would  never  be 
able  to  reach  home  again.  Her  brother  told  me,  but 
not  until  long  after  her  return,  that  on  her  way  home 
she  really  fainted  several  times  from  debility — and 
that  he  took  her  from  the  boat  to  the  carriage,  as  he 
would  have  done  an  infant. 


130  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

On  the  sixth  of  July,  I  once  more  folded  to  my 
heart  this  cherished  object  of  my  solicitude,  but  oh, 
the  change  which  three  short  weeks  had  wrought  in 
her  appearance,  struck  me  forcibly.  I  was  so  wholly 
unprepared  for  it,  that  I  nearly  fainted.  After  the 
excitement  of  the  meeting,  (which  she  had  evidently 
summoned  all  her  fortitude  to  bear  with  composure) 
was  over,  she  sat  down  by  me,  and  passing  her  thin 
arm  around  my  waist,  said,  "  Oh,  my  dear  mamma,  I 
am  home  again  at  last,  I  now  feel  as  if  I  never  wanted 
to  leave  you  again;  I  have  had  a  delightful  visit,  my 
friends  were  all  glad  to  see  me,  and  have  watched 
over  me  with  all  the  kindness  and  care,  which  affec 
tion  could  dictate,  but  oh,  there  is  no  place  like  home, 
and  no  care  like  a  mother's  care;  there  is  something 
in  the  very  air  of  home,  and  in  the  sound  of  your 
voice,  mother,  which  makes  me  happier  just  now, 
than  all  the  scenes  which  I  have  passed  through  in 
my  little  jaunt;  oh,  after  all,  home  is  the  only  place  for 
a  person  as  much  out  of  health  as  I  am.  I  strove  to  sup 
port  my  emotions,  while  I  marked  her  pale  cheek  and 
altered  countenance.  She  fixed  her  penetrating  eyes 
upon  my  face,  kissed  me,  and  drawing  back  to  take  a 
more  full  survey  of  the  effects  which  pain  and  anxiety 
had  wrought  in  me,  kissed  me  again  and  again,  say 
ing,  "  she  knew  1  had  deeply  felt  the  want  of  her 
society,  and  now  once  more  at  home,  she  should  so 
prize  its  comforts,  as  to  be  in  no  haste  to  leave  it 
again."  She  was  much  wasted,  and  could  hardly 
walk  from  one  room  to  another;  her  cough  was  very 
distressing,  she  had  no  pain,  but  a  languor  and  a  de 
pression  of  spirits,  foreign  to  her  nature.  She  struggled 
against  this  debility,  and  called  up  all  the  energies  of 
her  mind  to  overcome  it,  her  constant  reply  to  inqui- 


BIOGRAPHY.  131 

ries  about  her  health,  by  the  friends  who  called,  was 
the  same  as  formerly,  "  Well,  quite  well — mother  calls 
me  an  invalid,  but  I  feel  well."  Yet,  to  me,  when 
alone,  she  talked  more  freely  of  her  symptoms,  and  I 
thought  I  could  discern  from  her  manner,  that  she  had 
apprehensions  as  to  the  result.  I  had  often  endea 
vored  to  acquire  firmness  sufficient  to  tell  her  what 
was  her  situation,  but  she  seemed  so  studiously  to 
avoid  the  disclosure,  that  my  resolution  had  hitherto, 
been  unequal  to  the  task.  But  I  was  much  surprised 
one  day,  not  long  after  her  return  from  New  York, 
by  her  asking  me  to  tell  her  without  reserve,  my 
opinion  of  her  state;  the  question  wrung  my  very  heart. 
I  was  wholly  unprepared  for  it,  and  it  was  put  in  so 
solemn  a  manner,  that  1  could  not  evade  it,  were  I 
disposed  to  do  so.  I  knew  with  what  strong  affection 
she  clung  to  life,  and  the  objects  and  friends  which 
endeared  it  to  her;  I  knew  how  bright  the  world  upon 
which  she  was  just  entering  appeared  to  her  young 
fancy,  what  glowing  pictures  she  had  drawn  of  future 
usefulness  and  happiness.  1  was  now  called  upon  at 
one  blow,  to  crush  these  hopes,  to  destroy  the  delight 
ful  visions,  which  had  hovered  around  her  from  her 
cradle  until  this  very  period;  it  would  be  cruel  and 
wrong  to  deceive  her;  in  vain  I  attempted  a  reply  to 
her  direct  and  solemn  appeal,  and  my  voice  grew 
husky;  several  times  I  essayed  to  speak,  but  the 
words  died  away  on  my  lips;  I  could  only  fold  her  to 
my  heart  in  silence,  imprint  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
and  leave  the  room  to  avoid  agitating  her  with  feel 
ings  I  had  no  power  to  repress. 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  to  her  brother 
in  New  York,  dated  a  short  time  after  this  incident 


132  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

occurred,  and  which  I  never  saw  until  after  her  de 
parture,  will  best  portray  her  own  feelings  at  this 
period. 

"As  to  my  health  at  present,  I  feel  as  well  as  when 
you  were  here,  and  the  cough  is  much  abated,  but 
it  is  evident  to  me,  that  mother  thinks  me  not  so 
well  as  before  I  left  home;  I  do  not  myself  believe 
that  I  have  gained  any  thing  from  the  visit,  and  in  a 
case  like  mine,  standing  still  is  certainly  loss,  but  I 
feel  no  worse.  However,  I  have  learned,  that  feel 
ings  are  no  criterion  of  disease.  Now,  brother,  I 

want  to  know,  what  Dr.  M discovered,  or  thought 

he  discovered  in  his  examination  of  my  lungs;  father 
says  nothing — mother,  when  I  ask,  cannot  tell  me, 
and  looks  so  sad!  Now,  I  ask  you,  hoping  to  be 
answered.  If  you  have  not  heard  the  doctor  say,  I 
wish  you  would  ask  him,  and  write  to  me.  If  it  is 
more  unfavorable  than  I  anticipate,  it  is  best  I  should 
know  now;  if  it  is  the  contrary,  how  much  pain  and 
restlessness  and  suspicion  will  be  spared  me,  by  the 
knowledge.  As  to  myself,  I  feel  and  know  that  my 
health  is  in  a  most  precarious  state,  that  the  disease 
we  dread,  has  perhaps  fastened  upon  me,  but  I  have 
an  impression,  that  if  I  make  use  of  the  proper  reme 
dies  and  exercise,  I  may  yet  recover  a  tolerable  de 
gree  of  health.  I  do  not  feel  that  my  case  is  incura 
ble;  I  wish  to  know  if  I  am  wrong.  I  have  rode  on 
horseback  twice  since  you  left  me;  dear,  dear  brother, 
what  a  long  egotistic  letter  I  have  written  you;  do 
forgive  me,  my  heart  was  full,  and  I  felt  that  I  must 
unburden  it.  I  wish  you  would  write  me  a  long 
letter.  Do  not  let  dear  mother  know  at  present,  the 
questions  I  have  asked  you.  ********* 


BIOGRAPHY.  133 

From  this  period,  she  grew  more  thoughtful. 
There  was  even  a  solemnity  in  her  manner,  which 
I  never  before  observed.  Her  mind,  as  I  mentioned 
before,  had  been  rrmch  perplexed  by  some  doctrinal 
points.  To  solve  these  doubts,  I  asked  if  I  should 
not  send  for  some  clergyman.  She  said  no.  She  had 
heard  many  discussions  on  these  subjects,  and  they  had 
always  served  rather  to  confuse  than  to  convince  her. 
"  I  would  rather  converse  with  you  alone,  mother." 
She  then  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  essential  to  salvation 
that  she  should  adopt  any  particular  creed.  I  felt  that 
I  was  an  inefficient,  perhaps  a  blind  guide,  yet  it  was 
my  duty  not  only  to  impart  consolation,  but  to  explain 
to  her  my  own  views  of  the  truth.  I  replied  that  I  con 
sidered  faith  and  repentance  only,  to  be  essential  to  sal 
vation  :  that  it  was  very  desirable  that  her  mind  should 
be  settled  upon  some  particular  mode  of  faith;  but  that 
I  did  not  think  it  absolutely  necessary  that  she  should 
adopt  the  tenets  of  any  established  church,  and  again 
recommended  an  attentive  perusal  of  the  New  Testa 
ment.  She  expressed  her  firm  belief  in  the  divinity 
of  Christ.  The  perfections  of  his  character,  its  beauty 
and  holiness  excited  her  admiration,  while  the  bene 
volence  which  prompted  the  sacrifice  of  himself  to  save 
a  lost  world,  filled  her  with  the  most  enthusiastic 
gratitude.  It  was  a  source  of  regret  that  so  much  of 
her  time  had  been  spent  in  light  reading,  and  that  her 
writings  had  not  been  of  a  more  decidedly  religious 
character.  She  lamented  that  she  had  not  chosen 
Scriptural  subjects  for  the  exercise  of  her  poetical  talent, 
and  said,  "Mamma,  should  God  spare  my  life,  my  time 
and  talents  shall  for  the  future,  be  devoted  to  a  higher 
and  holier  end."  She  felt  that  she  had  trifled  with  the 


134  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

gifts  of  Providence,  and  her  self  condemnation  and 
grief  were  truly  affecting.  "  And  must  I  die  so  young? 
My  career  of  usefulness  hardly  commenced?  Oh! 
mother,  how  sadly  have  I  trifled  with  the  gifts  of 
Heaven!  What  have  I  done  which  can  benefit  one 
human  being?"  I  folded  her  to  my  heart,  and  endea 
vored  to  soothe  the  tumult  of  her  feelings,  baJe  her 
remember  her  dutiful  conduct  as  a  daughter,  lur  affec 
tionate  bearing  as  a  sister  and  friend,  and  the  consola 
tion  which  she  had  afforded  me  through  years  ot  suffer 
ing!  "Oh  my  mother,"  said  she, "  I  have  been  reflect 
ing  much  of  late,  upon  this  sad  waste  of  intellect,  and 
had  marked  out  for  myself  a  course  of  usefulness  which, 

should  God  spare  my  life ."    Here  her  emotions 

became  too  powerful  to  proceed.  At  times  she  suffered 
much  anxiety  with  regard  to  her  eternal  welfare,  and 
deeply  lamented  her  want  of  faithfulness  in  the  perform 
ance  of  her  religious  duties:  complained  of  coldness 
and  formality  in  her  devotional  exercises,  and  entreat 
ed  me  to  pray  with  and  for  her.  At  other  times,  her 
hope  of  Heaven  would  be  bright,  her  faith  unwavering 
and  her  devotion  fervent.  Yet  it  was  evident  to  me, 
that  she  still  cherished  the  hope  that  her  life  might  be 
prolonged.  Her  mother  had.  lingered  for  years  in  a 
state  equally  hopeless,  and  during  that  period  had  been 
enabled  to  attend  to  the  moral  and  religious  culture  of 
her  little  family.  Might  not  the  same  kind  Providence 
prolong  her  life,.  It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  a  de 
scription  of  those  seasons  of  deep  and  thrilling  interest. 
God  alone  knows  in  what  way  my  own  weak  frame 
was  sustained.  I  felt  that  she  had  been  renovated  and 
purified  by  Divine  Grace,  and  to  see  her  thus  distrest 
when  I  thought  that  all  the  consolations  of  the  Gospel 


BIOGRAPHY.  135 

ought  to  be  hers,  gave  my  heart  a  severe  pang.  Ma 
ny  of  our  friends  now  were  of  opinion  that  a  change 
of  climate  might  benefit,  perhaps  restore  her.  Here 
tofore,  when  the* suggestion  had  been  made,  she 
shrunk  from  the  idea  of  leaving  her  home  for  a  distant 
clime.  Now  her  anxiety  to  try  the  effect  of  a  change 
was  great,  I  felt  that  it  would  be  vain,  although  I  was 
desirous  that  nothing  should  be  left  untried.  Feeble 
as  she  now  was,  the  idea  of  her  resigning  the  comforts 
of  home  and  being  subject  to  the  fatigues  of  travelling 
in  public  conveyances  was  a  dreadful  one,  yet  if  there 
was  a  rational  prospect  of  prolonging  her  life  by  these 
means,  I  was  anxious  to  give  them  a  trial.  Dr.  Da 
vidson  after  much  deliberation  on  the  the  subject,called 

counsel.     Dr. came,  and  when  after  half  an  hour's 

pleasant  and  playful  conversation  with  Margaret,  he 
joined  us  in  the  parlor,  Oh!  how  my  poor  heart 
trembled.  I  hung  upon  the  motions  of  his  lips  as  if 
my  own  life  depended  on  what  they  might  utter.  At 
length  he  spoke,  and  I  felt  as  if  an  ice-bolt  had  passed 
through  my  heart.  He  had  never  thought,  although 
he  had  known  her  many  years,  that  a  change  of  cli 
mate  would  benefit  her.  She  had  lived  beyond  his  ex 
pectations  many  months,  even  years;  and  now  he  was 
convinced,  were  we  to  attempt  to  take  her  to  a  Southern 
climate,  that  she  would  die  on  the  passage.  Make  it 
as  pleasant  as  possible  for  her  at  home,  was  his  advice. 
He  thought  that  a  few  months  must  terminate  her  life. 
She  knew  that  we  had  confidence  in  the  opinion  of 
this,  her  favorite  physician.  When  I  had  gained  firm 
ness  enough  to  answer  her  questions,  I  again  entered 
the  room  and  found  her  composed,  although  she  had 
evidently  been  strongly  agitated,  and  had  not  brought 


136  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

her  mind  to  hear  her  doom.  Never,  oh!  never  to  the 
latest  hour  of  my  life,  shall  I  forget  the  look  she  gave 
me  when  I  met  her.  What  a  heart-rending  task  was 
mine !  I  performed  it  as  gently  as  possible.  I  said  the 
Doctor  thought  her  strength  unequal  to  the  fatigue  of 
the  journey;  that  he  was  not  so  great  an  advocate  for 
change  of  climate  as  many  persons;  that  he  had  known 
many  cases  in  which  he  thought  it  injurious,  and  his 
best  advice  was  that  we  should  again  ward  off  the 
severity  of  the  winter  by  creating  an  atmosphere  within 
our  house.  She  mildly  acquiesced,  and  the  subject 
was  dropped  altogether.  She  sometimes  read,  and 
frequently  from  mere  habit,  held  a  book  in  her  hand 
when  unable  to  digest  its  contents,  and  within  the 
book,  there  usually  rested  a  piece  of  paper,  upon  which 
she  occasionally  marked  the  reflections  which  arose  in 
her  mind,  either  in  poetry  or  prose. 

The  following  fragments  appear  to  be  the  very 
breathings  of  her  soul  during  the  last  few  weeks  of 
her  life — written  in  pencil,  in  a  hand  so  weak  and 
tremulous  that  I  could  with  difficulty  decipher  them 
word  by  word  with  the  aid  of  a  strong  magnifying 
glass. 

"Consumption  !  child  of  woe,  thy  blighting  breath 
Marks  all  that's  fair  and  lovely  for  thine  own, 
And,  sweeping  o'er  the  silver  chords  of  life, 
Blends  all  their  music  in  one  death-like  tone. 

1838. 

"  What  strange,  what  mystic  things  we  are, 
With  spirits  longing  to  outlive  the  stars. 
********     but  even  m  decay 

Hasting  to  meet  our  brethren  in  the  dust. 
As  one  small  dew-drop  runs,  another  drops 
To  sink  unnoticed  in  the  world  of  waves. 


BIOGRAPHY.  137 

"  O  it  is  sad  to  feel  that  when  a  few  short  years 
Of  life  are  past,  we  shall  lie  down,  unpitied 
And  unknown,  amid  a  careless  world  ; 
That  youth  and  age  and  revelry  and  grief 
Above  our  heads  nhall  pass,  and  we  alone 
Shall  sleep !  alone  shall  be  as  we  have  been. 
No  more.        ***** 

These  are  unfinished  fragments,  a  part  of  which  I 
could  not  decipher  at  all.  I  insert  them  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  daily  operations  of  her  mind  during  the 
whole  of  this  long  summer  of  suffering.  Her  gentle 
spirit  never  breathed  a  murmur  or  complaint.  I  think 
she  was  rarely  heard  to  express  even  a  feeling  of 
weariness.  But  here  are  a  few  more  of  those  out 
pourings  of  the  heart.  I  copy  these  little  effusions 
with  all  their  errors;  there  is  a  sacredness  about  them 
which  forbids  the  change  even  of  a  single  letter.  The 
first  of  the  fragments  which  follow  was  written  on  a 
Sabbath  evening  in  autumn,  not  many  weeks  before 
her  death. 

It  is  autumn,  the  season  of  rapid  decay, 

When  the  flow'rets  of  summer  are  hasting  away 

From  the  breath  of  the  wintry  blast, 
And  the  buds  which  oped  to  the  gazer's  eye, 
And  the  glowing  tints  of  the  gorgeous  sky, 
And  the  forests  robed  in  their  emerald  dye, 

With  their  loveliest  blossoms  have  past. 
'Tis  eve,  and  the  brilliant  sunset  hue 
Is  replaced  by  a  sky  of  the  coldest  blue, 

Untouched  by  a  floating  cloud. 
And  all  nature  is  silent,  calm  and  serene, 
As  though  sorrow  and  suffering  never  had  been 

On  this  beautiful  earth  abroad. 
'Tis  a  Sabbath  eve,  and  the  longing  soul 
Is  charm'd  by  its  quiet  and  gentle  control 

From  each  wayward  and  wandering  thought, 
10 


138  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  it  longs  from  each  meaner  affection  to  move, 
And  it  soareth  the  troubles  of  earth  above 
To  bathe  in  that  fountain  of  light  and  love, 
Whence  our  purest  enjoyments  are  caught. 

1838. 

But  winter,  O  what  shall  thy  greeting  be 

From  our  waters,  our  earth  and  our  sky ; 
What  welcoming  strain  shall  arise  for  thee 

As  thy  chariot  wheels  draw  nigh  ? 
Alas!  the  fresh  flowers  of  the  spirit  decay 

As  thy  cold,  cold  steps  advance, 
And  even  young  Fancy  is  shrinking  away 

From  the  chill  of  thy  terrible  glance; 
And  Hope  with  her  mantle  of  rainbow  hue 

Hath  fled  from  thy  freezing  eye, 
And  her  bright  train  of  visions  are  melting  in  air 

As  thy  shivering  blasts  sweep  by. 

Thy  ****** 

Oct.  1838. 

The  nature  of  the  soul, 
The  spirit,  what  is  it?     Mysterious,  sublime, 

Undying,  unchanging,  forever  the  same, 
It  bounds  lightly  athwart  the  dark  billows  of  time, 

And  moves  on  unscorched  by  its  heavenly  flame. 

Man  owns  thee  and  feels  thee,  and  knows  thee  divine; 

He  feels  thou  art  his,  and  thou  never  canst  die ; 
He  believes  thee  a  gem  from  the  Maker's  pure  shrine, 

A  portion  of  purity  holy  and  high, 

'Tis  around  him,  within  him  the  source  of  his  life, 
Yet  too  weak  to  contemplate  its  glory  and  might; 

He  trembling  shrinks  back  to  dull  earth's  humble  strife, 
And  leaves  the  pure  atmosphere  glowing  with  light. 

Thou  spark  from  the  Deity's  radiant  throne, 

I  know  thee,  yet  shrink  from  thy  greatness  and  power ; 

Thou  art  mine  in  thy  splendor,  I  feel  thee  my  own, 
Yet  behold  me  as  frail  as  the  light  summer  flower. 


BIOGRAPHY.  139 

I  strive  in  my  weakness  to  gaze  on  thy  might, 

To  trace  out  thy  wanderings  through  ages  to  come, 
Till  like  birds  on  the  sea,  all  exhausted,  at  length 

I  flutter  back  weary  to  earth  as  my  home. 

>  * 
Like  a  diamond  when  laid  in  a  rough  case  of  clay, 

Which  may  crumble  and  wear  from  the  pure  gem  enclos'd, 
But  which  ne'er  can  be  lit  by  one  tremulous  ray 

From  the  glory-crown'd  star  in  its  dark  case  reposed. 

As  the  cool  weather  advanced,  her  decline  became 
more  visible,  and  she  devoted  more  and  more  of  her 
time  to  searching  the  Scriptures,  self-examination  and 
subjects  for  reflection,  and  questions  which  were  to 
be  solved  by  evidences  deduced  from  the  Bible.  I 
found  them  but  a  few  days  before  her  death,  in  the 
sacred  volume  which  lay  upon  the  table,  at  which 
she  usually  sat  during  her  hours  of  retirement.  She 
had  been  searching  the  holy  book,  and  overcome  by 
the  exertion,  rang  the  bell  which  summoned  me  to 
her  side,  for  no  person  but  myself  was  admitted  dur 
ing  the  time  set  apart  for  her  devotional  exercises. 

Subjects  for  reflection. 

1st.  The  uniform  usefulness  of  Christ's  miracles. 

2d.  The  manner  in  which  he  overthrows  all  the 
exalted  hopes  which  the  Jews  entertain  of  a  temporal 
kingdom,  and  strives  to  explain  to  them  the  entire 
spirituality  of  the  one  he  has  come  to  erect. 

3d.  The  deep  and  unchangeable  love  for  man, 
which  must  have  impelled  Christ  to  resist  so  many 
temptations  and  endure  so  many  sufferings,  even 
death,  that  truth  might  enlighten  the  world,  and 
heaven  and  immortality  become  realities  instead  of 
dreams. 

4th.  The  general  thoughtlessness  of  man  with  re 
gard  to  his  greatest,  his  only  interest. 


140  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

5th.  Christ's  constant  submission  to  the  will  of  his 
father,  and  the  necessity  of  our  imitating  the  meek 
and  calm  and  gentle  qualities  of  his  character,  together 
with  that  firmness  of  purpose  and  confidence  in  God 
which  sustained  him  to  the  end. 

6th.  The  necessity  of  so  living,  that  we  need  not 
fear  to  think  each  day  our  last. 

7th.  The  necessity  of  religion  to  soothe  and  sup 
port  the  mind  on  the  bed  of  sickness. 
8th.   Self-examination. 

9th.  Is  Christ  mentioned  expressly  in  Scripture  as 
equal  with  God  and  a  part? 

10th.  Is  there  sufficient  ground  for  the  doctrine  of 
the  Trinity? 

llth.  Did  Christ  come  as  a  prophet  and  reformer  of 
the  world,  or  as  a  sacrifice  for  our  sins,  to  appease 
the  wrath  of  his  father. 

12th.  Is  any  thing  said  of  infant  baptism? 

Written  in  November  1838. 

About  three  weeks  before  her  departure,  I  one 
morning  found  her  in  the  parlor,  where,  as  I  before 
observed,  she  spent  a  portion  of  her  time  in  retire 
ment,  I  saw  that  she  had  been  much  agitated,  and 
seemed  weary.  I  seated  myself  by  her  and  rested 
her  head  on  my  bosom,  while  I  gently  pressed  my 
hand  upon  her  throbbing  temples  to  soothe  the  agita 
tion  of  her  nerves.  She  kissed  me  again  and  again, 
and  seemed  as  if  she  feared  to  trust  her  voice  to  speak 
lest  her  feelings  should  overcome  her.  As  I  returned 
her  caresses,  she  silently  put  a  folded  paper  in  my 
hand.  I  began  to  open  it,  when  she  gently  laid  her 
hand  on  mine,  and  said  in  a  low  tremulous  tone,  «  Not 
now, dear  mother!"  I  then  led  her  back  to  her  room, 


BIOGRAPHY.  141 

placed  her  upon  the  sofa,  and  retired  to  examine  the 
paper.   It  contained  the  following  lines. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

Oh  Mother,  would  the  power  were  mine, 
To  wake  the  strain  thou  lov'st  to  hear, 

And  breath  each  trembling  new-born  thought, 
Within  thy  fondly  listening  ear. 

As  when  in  days  of  health  and  glee, 

My  hopes  and  fancies  wander'd  free. 

But,  mother,  now  a  shade  has  past, 
Athwart  my  brightest  visions  here, 

A  cloud  of  darkest  gloom  has  wrapt, 
The  remnant  of  my  brief  career  ! 

No  song,  no  echo  can  I  win, 

The  sparkling  fount  has  died  within. 

The  torch  of  earthly  hope  burns  dim, 

And  fancy  spreads  her  wings  no  more. 
And  oh,  how  vain  and  trivial  seem, 

The  pleasures  that  I  prized  before. 
My  soul  with  trembling  steps  and  slow, 

Is  struggling  on  through  doubt  and  strife, 
Oh  !  may  it  prove  as  time  rolls  on, 

The  pathway  to  eternal  life; — 
Then,  when  my  cares  and  fears  are  o'er, 
I'll  sing  thee  as  in  days  of  yore. 

I  said  that  hope  had  pass'd  from  earth, 
'Twas  but  to  fold  her  wings  in  Heaven, 

To  whisper  of  the  soul's  new  birth, 
Of  sinners  sav'd  and  sins  forgiven. 

When  mine  are  wash'd  in  tears  away, 

Then  shall  my  spirit  swell  my  lay. 

When  God  shall  guide  my  soul  above, 
By  the  soft  cords  of  heavenly  love, 
When  the  vain  cares  of  earth  depart, 
And  tuneful  voices  swell  my  heart, 


142  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then  shall  each  word,  each  note  I  raise, 
Burst  forth  in  pealing  hymns  of  praise, 
And  all  not  offered  at  His  shrine, 
Dear  mother,  I  will  place  on  thine. 

It  was  long  before  I  could  regain  sufficient  com 
posure  to  return  to  her.  When  I  did  so,  I  found  her 
sweetly  calm,  and  she  greeted  me  with  a  smile  so  full 
of  affection,  that  I  shall  cherish  the  recollection  of  its 
brightness  until  my  latest  breath.  It  was  the  last 
piece  she  ever  wrote,  except  a  parody  of  four  lines  of 
the  hymn,  "  I  would  not  live  always,"  which  was 
written  within  the  last  week  of  her  life. 

"  I  would  not  live  always,  thus  fettered  by  sin, 
Temptation  without,  and  corruption  within, 
With  the  soul  ever  dimm'd  by  its  hopes  and  its  fears, 
And  the  heart's  holy  flame  ever  struggling  through  tears. 


Thus  far,  in  preparing  this  memoir,  we  have  availed 
ourselves  almost  entirely  of  copious  memoranda,  fur 
nished  us,  at  our  request,  by  Mrs.  Davidson;  but 
when  the  narrator  approached  the  closing  scene  of 
this  most  affecting  story,  the  heart  of  the  mother  gave 
out,  and  she  found  herself  totally  inadequate  to  the 
task.  Fortunately,  Dr.  Davidson  had  retained  a  copy 
of  a  letter,  written  by  her  in  the  midst  of  her  affliction, 
to  Miss  Sedgwick,  in  reply  to  an  epistle  from  that 
lady,  expressive  of  the  kindest  sympathy,  and  making 
some  inquiries  relative  to  the  melancholy  event.  We 
subjoin  that  letter  entire,  for  never  have  we  read  any 
thing  of  the  kind  more  truly  eloquent  or  deeply  affect- 
ins. 


BIOGRAPHY.  143 

"  SARATOGA  SPRINGS. 

"¥ES,  my  dear  Miss  Sedgwick:  she  is  an  angel  now; 
calmly  and  sweeny  she  sunk  to  her  everlasting  rest, 
as  a  babe  gently  slumbers  on  its  mother's  bosom.  I 
thank  my  Father  in  heaven  that  I  was  permitted  to 
watch  over  her,  and  I  trust  administer  to  her  comfort 
during  her  illness.  I  know,  my  friend,  you  will  not 
expect  either  a  very  minute  or  connected  detail  of  the 
circumstances  preceding  her  change,  from  me  at  this 
time,  for  I  am  indeed  bowed  down  with  sorrow.  I 
feel  that  I  am  truly  desolate,  how  desolate  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe.  Yet  in  the  depth  of  grief  I  have 
consolations  of  the  purest,  most  soothing  and  exalted 
nature.  I  would  not,  indeed  I  could  not  murmur,  but 
rather  bless  my  God  that  he  has  in  the  plenitude  of 
his  goodness  made  me,  even  for  a  brief  space  on  earth, 
the  honored  mother  of  such  an  angel.  Oh  my  dear 
Miss  Sedgwick,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  during 
the  last  two  months  of  her  brief  sojourn  with  us.  Her 
meekness  and  patience,  and  her  even  cheerful  bearing 
were  unexampled.  But  when  she  was  assured  that 
all  the  tender  and  endearing  ties  which  bound  her  to 
earth  were  about  to  be  severed,  when  she  saw  that 
life  and  all  its  bright  visions  were  fading  from  her 
eyes — that  she  was  standing  at  the  entrance  of  the 
dark  valley  which  must  be  traversed  in  her  way  to 
the  eternal  world,  the  struggle  was  great,  but  brief 
— she  caught  the  hem  of  her  Saviour's  robe  and 
meekly  bowed  to  the  mandate  of  her  God.  Since  the 
beginning  of  August,  I  have  watched  this  tender  blos 
som  with  intense  anxiety,  and  marked  her  decline  with 
a  breaking  heart;  and  although  from  that  time  until 
the  period  of  her  departure,  I  never  spent  a  whole 


144  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

night  in  bed,  my  excitement  was  so  strong  that  I  was 
unconscious  of  the  want  of  sleep.  Oh,  my  dear  ma 
dam,  the  whole  course  of  her  decline  was  so  unlike 
any  other  death-bed  scene  I  ever  witnessed;  there 
was  nothing  of  the  gloom  of  a  sick  chamber;  a  charm 
was  in  and  around  her;  a  holy  light  seemed  to  per 
vade  everything  belonging  to  her.  There  was  a  sacred- 
ness,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  which  seemed  to  tell  the 
presence  of  the  Divinity.  Strangers  felt  it,  all  acknow 
ledged  it.  Very  few  were  admitted  to  her  sick  room, 
but  those  few  left  it  with  an  elevation  of  heart  new, 
solemn,  and  delightful.  She  continued  to  ride  out  as 
long  as  the  weather  was  mild,  and  even  after  she  be 
came  too  weak  to  walk  she  frequently  desired  to  be 
taken  into  the  parlor,  and  when  there,  with  all  her 
little  implements  of  drawing  and  writing,  her  books, 
and  even  her  little  work  box  and  basket  beside  her: 
she  seemed  to  think  that  by  these  little  attempts  at 
her  usual  employments,  she  could  conceal  from  me, 
for  she  saw  my  heart  was  breaking,  the  ravages  of 
disease  and  her  consequent  debility.  The  New  Tes 
tament  was  her  daily  study,  and  a  portion  of  every 
day  was  spent  in  private,  in  self-examination  and 
prayer.  My  dear  Miss  Sedgwick,  how  I  have  felt 
my  own  littleness,  my  total  unworthiness,  when  com 
pared  with  this  pure,  this  high-souled,  intellectual, 
yet  timid,  humble  child;  bending  at  the  altar  of  her 
God,  and  pleading  for  pardon  arid  acceptance  in  his 
sight,  and  grace  to  assist  her  in  preparing  for  eternity. 
As  her  strength  wasted,  she  often  desired  me  to  share 
her  hours  of  retirement  and  converse  with  her,  and 
read  to  her,  when  unable  to  read  herself.  Oh!  how 
sad.  how  delightful,  how  agonising  is  the  memory  of 


BIOGRAPHY.  145 

the  sweet  and  holy  communion  we  then  enjoyed. 
Forgive  rne,  my  friend,  for  thus  mingling  rny  own 
feelings  with  the  circumstances  you  wished  to  know; 
and,  oh!  continue  to  pray  that  God  will  give  me  sub 
mission  under  this  desolating  stroke.  She  was  my 
darling,  my  almost  idolized  child:  truly,  truly,  you 
have  said,  the  charm  of  my  existence.  Her  symptoms 
were  extremely  distressing,  although  she  suffered  no 
pain.  A  week  before  her  departure,  she  desired  that 
the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  might  be  admin 
istered  to  her.  *  Mother,'  said  she  <  I  do  not  desire 
it  because  I  feel  worthy  to  receive  it,  I  feel  myself  a 
sinner,  but  I  desire  to  manifest  my  faith  in  Christ  by 
receiving  an  ordinance  instituted  by  himself  but  a 
short  time  before  his  crucifixion.'  The  Holy  Sacra 
ment  was  administered  by  Mr.  Babcock.  The  solem 
nity  of  the  scene  can  be  better  felt  than  described.  I 
cannot  attempt  it.  After  it  was  over,  a  holy  calm 
seemed  to  pervade  her  mind,  and  she  looked  almost 
like  a  beatified  spirit.  The  evening  following,  she 
said  to  me,  <  mother  I  have  made  a  solemn  surrender 
of  myself  to  God;  if  it  is  his  will,  I  would  desire  to 
live  long  enough  to  prove  the  sincerity  of  my  profes 
sion,  but  his  will  be  done;  living  or  dying  I  am  hence 
forth  devoted  to  God.'  After  this,  some  doubt  seemed 
to  intrude,  her  spirit  was  troubled.  I  asked  her  if 
there  was  any  thing  she  desired  to  have  done,  any 
little  arrangements  to  be  made,  any  thing  to  say 
which  she  had  left  unsaid,  and  assured  her  that  her 
wishes  should  be  sacred  to  me.  She  turned  her  eyes 
upon  me  with  an  expression  so  sad,  so  mournfully 
sweet:  £  Mother,  "  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear,  to 
mansions  in  the  skies,"  then  I  will  think  of  other  mat- 


146  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ters.'  Her  hair,  which  when  a  little  child  had  been 
often  cut  to  improve  its  growth,  was  now  very  beau 
tiful;  and  she  usually  took  much  pains  with  it.  During 
the  whole  course  of  her  sickness  I  had  taken  care  of 
it.  One  day,  not  long  before  her  death,  she  said,  evi 
dently  making  a  great  effort  to  speak  with  composure, 
" Mother,  if  you  are  willing  I  will  have  my  hair  cut 
off;  it  is  troublesome;  I  should  like  it  better  short."  1 
understood  her  at  once,  she  did  not  like  to  have  the 
idea  of  death  associated  with  those  beautiful  tresses 
which  I  had  loved  to  braid.  She  would  have  them 
taken  off  while  living.  I  mournfully  gave  my  con 
sent,  and  she  said, '  I  will  not  ask  you,  my  dear  mother, 

to  do  it,  my  friend,  Mrs.  F will  be  with  me  to 

night,  and  she  will  do  it  for  me.'  The  dark  rich 
locks  were  severed  at  midnight;  never  shall  I  forget 
the  expression  of  her  young  faded  face  as  I  entered 
the  room.  <Do  not  be  agitated,  dear  mamma,  I  am 
more  comfortable  now.  Lay  it  away  if  you  please, 
and  to-morrow  I  will  arrange  and  dispose  of  it.  Do 
you  know  that  I  view  my  hair  as  something  sacred? 
It  is  a  part  of  myself,  which  will  be  re-united  to  my 
body  at  the  resurrection.'  She  had  sat  in  an  easy- 
chair  or  reclined  upon  a  sofa  for  several  weeks. 

"  On  Friday  the  22d  of  November,  at  my  urgent  en 
treaty,  she  consented  to  be  laid  upon  the  bed.  She 
found  it  a  relief,  and  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep,  from 
which  she  was  only  awoke  when  I  aroused  her  to 
take  some  refreshment.  When  she  awoke,  she  looked 
and  spoke  like  an  angel,  but  soon  dropped  asleep  as 
before.  Oh!  how  my  poor  heart  trembled,  for  I  felt 
that  it  was  but  the  precursor  to  her  long  last  rest, 
although  many  of  our  friends  thought  she  might  yet 


BIOGRAPHY.  147 

linger  some  weeks.  A  total  loss  of  appetite,  and  a 
difficulty  in  swallowing,  prevented  her  from  taking 
any  nourishment  throughout  the  day,  and  when  we 
placed  her  in  the  easy  chair,  at  night,  in  order  to  ar 
range  her  bed,  I  offered  her  some  nice  food,  which  I 
had  prepared,  and  found  she  could  not  take  it.  My 
feelings  amounted  almost  to  agony.  She  said  (  do 
not  be  distressed.  I  will  take  it  bye  and  bye.'  I 
seated  myself  beside  here,  and  she  said,  (  Surely,  my 
dear  mother,  you  have  many  consolations.  You  are 
gathering  a  little  family  in  heaven  to  welcome  you.' 
My  heart  was  full,  when  I  could  speak,  I  said,  'Yes 
my  love,  I  feel  that  I  am  indeed  gathering  a  little 
family  in  heaven  to  bid  you  welcome,  but  when  they 
are  all  assembled  there  how  dreadful  to  doubt  whether 
1  may  ever  be  permitted  to  join  the  circle.'  6  Oh 
hush,  dear,  dear  mother,  do  not  indulge  such  sad 
thoughts;  the  fact  of  your  having  trained  this  little 
band  to  inhabit  that  holy  place,  is  sufficient  evidence 
to  me  that  you  will  not  fail  to  join  us  there.'  I  was 
with  her  myself  that  night,  and  a  friend  in  the  neigh 
borhood  sat  up  also.  On  Saturday  morning,  after  I 
had  taken  half  an  hour's  sleep,  I  found  her  quiet  as  a 
sleeping  infant.  I  prepared  her  some  food,  and  when 
I  awoke  her  to  take  it,  she  said  'dear  mother,  I  will 
try  if  it  is  only  to  please  you.'  I  fed  her,  as  I  would 
have  fed  a  babe.  She  smiled  sweetly  and  said, 
1  Mother,  I  am  again  an  infant.'  I  asked  if  I  should 
read  to  her;  she  said  yes,  she  would  like  to  have  me 
read  a  part  of  the  gospel  of  John.  I  did  so,  and  then 
said  l  my  dear  Margaret,  you  look  sweetly  composed 
this  morning.  I  trust  all  is  peace  within  your  heart.' 
*  Yes  mother,  all  is  peace,  sweet  peace.  I  feel  that  I 


148  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

can  do  nothing  for  myself.  I  have  cast  my  burden 
upon  Christ.'  I  asked  if  she  could  rest  her  hopes 
there  in  perfect  confidence.  'Yes,'  she  replied, 
6  Jesus  will  not  fail  me.  I  can  trust  him.'  She  then 
sank  into  a  deep  sleep,  as  on  the  preceding  day.  In 
the  afternoon,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  came  from  Ballston, 
they  were  much  affected  by  the  change  a  few  days 
had  made  in  her  appearance.  I  awoke  her,  fearing 
she  might  sleep  too  long;  and  said  her  friends  had 
come.  She  extended  her  arms  to  them  both,  and 
kissed  them,  saying  to  Mr.  H.  that  he  found  her  a 
a  late  riser,  and  then  sank  to  sleep  again.  Mrs.  H. 
remained  with  us  that  night.  About  sunset  I  spoke 
to  her.  She  awoke  and  answered  me  cheerfully,  but 
observing  that  I  was  unusually  depressed,  she  said, 
'Dear  mother,  I  am  wearing  you  out.'  I  replied, 
'  My  child,  my  beloved  child,  it  is  not  that,  the  thought 
of  our  separation  fills  me  with  anguish.'  I  never 
shall  forget  the  expression  of  her  sweet  face,  as  she 
replied,  '  Mother,  my  own  dear  mother,  do  not  grieve. 
Our  parting  will  not  be  long,  in  life  we  were  inseper- 
able,  and  I  feel  that  you  cannot  live  without  me.  You 
will  soon  join  me,  and  we  shall  part  no  more.'  I 
kissed  her  pale  cheek,  as  I  bent  over  her,  and  finding 
my  agitation  too  strong  to  repress,  I  left  the  room. 
She  soon  after  desired  to  get  up;  she  said  she  must 
have  a  coughing  fit,  and  she  could  bear  it  better  in  the 
chair.  When  there  she  began  to  cough,  and  her  dis 
tress  was  beyond  description;  her  strength  was  soon 
exhausted,  and  we  again  carried  her  to  the  bed.  She 
coughed  from  six  until  half  past  ten.  I  then  prevailed 
on  her  to  take  some  nutritious  drink,  and  she  fell 
asleep.  My  husband  and  Mrs.  H.  were  both  of  them 


BIOGRAPHY. 


149 


anxious  that  I  should  retire  and  get  some  rest,  but  I 
did  not  feel  the  want  of  it,  and  impressed  as  I  was 
with  the  idea  that  this  was  the  last  night  she  would 
pass  on  earth,  I  could  not  go  to  bed.     But  others  saw 
not  the  change,  and  to  satisfy  them,  I  went  at  twelve 
to  my  room,  which  opened  into  hers.     There  I  sat 
listening  to  every  sound.     All  seemed  quiet,  I  twice 
opened  the  door,  and  Mrs.  H.  said  she  slept,  and  had 
taken  her  drink  as  often  as  directed,  and  again  urged 
me  to  go  to  bed.     A  little  after  two  I  put  on  my  night 
dress,  and  laid  down.     Between  three  and  four  Mrs. 
H.  came  in  haste  for  ether.     I  pointed  to  the  bottle, 
and  sprang  up.     She  said,  I  entreat,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Davidson,  that  you  do  not  rise;  there  is  no  sensible 
change,  only  a  turn  of  oppression.     She  closed  the 
door,  and  I  hastened  to  rise,  when  Mrs.  H.  came 
again,  and  said  Margaret  has  asked  for  her  mother. 
I  flew — she  held  the  bottle  of  ether  in  her  own  hand, 
and  pointed  to  her  breast.     I  poured  it  on  her  head 
and  chest.    She  revived.    '  I  am  better  now,'  said  she. 
'  Mother  you  tremble,  you  are  cold;   put  on  your 
clothes.'     I  stepped  to  the  fire,  and  threw  on  a  wrap 
per,  when  she  stretched  out  both  her  arms,  and  ex 
claimed,  '  Mother  take  me  in  your  arms.'     I  raised 
her,  and  seating  myself  on  the  bed,  passed  my  arms 
around  her  waist;  her  head  dropped  upon  my  bosom, 
and  her  expressive  eyes  were  raised  to  mine.     That 
look  I  never  shall  forget;  it  said, t  Tell  me,  mother,  is 
this  death.'     I  answered  the  appeal  as  if  she  had 
spoken.    I  laid  my  hand  upon  her  white  brow,  a  cold 
dew  had  gathered  there,  I  spoke,  '  Yes,  my  beloved, 
it  is  almost  finished;  you  will  soon  be  with  Jesus.' 
She  gave  one  more  look,  two  or  three  short  fluttering 


150  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

breaths,  and  all  was  over — her  spirit  was  with  its 
God — not  a  struggle  or  groan  preceded  her  departure. 
Her  father  just  came  in  time  to  witness  her  last  breath. 
For  a  long  half  hour,  I  remained  in  the  same  position 
with  the  precious  form  of  my  lifeless  child  upon  my 
bosom.  I  closed  those  beautiful  eyes  with  my  own 
hand.  I  was  calm.  I  felt  that  I  had  laid  my  angel 
from  my  own  breast,  upon  the  bosom  of  her  God. 
Her  father  and  myself  were  alone.  Her  Sabbath 
commenced  in  heaven.  Ours  was  opened  in  deep, 
deep  anguish.  Our  sons,  who  had  been  sent  for,  had 
not  arrived,  and  four  days  and  nights  did  Ellen,  (our 
young  nurse,  whom  Margaret  dearly  loved,)  and  I, 
watch  over  the  sacred  clay.  I  could  not  resign  this 
mournful  duty  to  strangers.  Although  no  son  or  re 
lative  was  with  us  in  this  sad  and  solemn  hour,  never 
did  sorrowing  strangers  meet  with  more  sympathy, 
than  we  received  in  this  hour  of  affliction,  from  the 
respected  inhabitants  of  Saratoga.  We  shall  carry 
with  us  through  life,  the  grateful  remembrance  of  their 
kindness.  And  now,  my  dear  madam,  let  me  thank 
you  for  your  kind  consoling  letter,  it  has  given  me 
consolation.  My  Margaret,  my  now  angel  child,  loved 
you  tenderly.  She  recognised  in  yours,  a  kindred 
mind,  and  I  feel  that  her  pure  spirit  will  behold  with 
delight  your  efforts  to  console  her  bereaved  mother." 

She  departed  this  life  on  the  25th  of  November, 
1838,  aged  fifteen  years  and  eight  months;  her  earthly 
remains  repose  in  the  grave  yard  of  the  village  of 
Saratoga. 

A  few  days  after  her  departure,  observes  Mrs. 
Davidson  in  a  memorandum,  I  was  searching  the 
library  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  further  me- 


BIOGRAPHY.  151 

mento  of  my  lost  darling,  when  a  packet  folded 
in  the  form  of  a  letter,  met  my  eye.  It  was  con 
fined  with  a  needHi  and  thread,  instead  of  a  seal, 
and  secured  more  firmly  by  white  sewing  silk,  which 
was  passed  several  times  around  it;  the  superscription 
was,  "  For  rny  Mother,  Private."  Upon  opening 
these  papers,  I  found  they  contained  the  results  of 
self  examination,  from  a  very  early  period  of  her  life, 
until  within  a  few  days  of  its  close.  These  results 
were  noted  and  composed  at  different  periods.  They 
are  some  of  the  most  interesting  relics  she  has  left, 
but  they  are  of  too  sacred  a  nature  to  meet  the  public 
eye.  They  display  a  degree  of  self  knowledge  and 
humility,  and  a  depth  of  contrition,  which  could  only 
emanate  from  a  heart  chastened  and  subdued  by  the 
power  of  divine  grace. 


We  here  conclude  this  memoir,  which,  for  the 
most  part,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  is  a  mere  tran 
script  of  the  records  furnished  by  a  mother's  heart. 
We  shall  not  pretend  to  comment  on  these  records; 
they  need  no  comment,  and  they  admit  no  heighten 
ing.  Indeed,  the  farther  we  have  proceeded  with 
our  subject,  the  more  has  the  intellectual  beauty  and 
the  seraphic  purity  of  the  little  being  we  have  attempt 
ed  to  commemorate  broken  upon  us;  and  the  more 
have  we  shrunk  at  our  own  unworthiness  for  such  a 
task.  To  use  one  of  her  own  exquisite  expressions, 
she  was  "  A  spirit  of  Heaven  fettered  by  the  strong 
affections  of  earth;"  and  the  whole  of  her  brief  so 
journ  here,  seems  to  have  been  a  struggle  to  regain 
her  native  skies.  We  may  apply  to  her  a  passage 


152  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

from  one  of  her  own   tender  apostrophies,  to  the 
memory  of  her  sister  Lucretia. 

One  who  came  from  Heaven  awhile 

To  bless  the  mourners  here, 
Their  joys  to  hallow  with  her  smile, 

Their  sorrow  with  her  tear. 

Who  joined  to  all  the  charms  of  earth 

The  noblest  gifts  of  heaven, 
To  whom  the  muses  at  her  birth 

Their  sweetest  smiles  had  given. 

Whose  eye  beamed  forth  with  fancy's  ray, 

And  genius  pure  and  high  ; 
Whose  very  soul  had  seemed  to  bathe 

In  streams  of  melody. 


The  cheek  which  once  so  sweetly  beamed, 

Grew  pallid  with  decay, 
The  burning  fire  within  consumed 

Its  tenement  of  clay. 

Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 
Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile ; 

She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 
Then  met  him  with  a  smile. 


END    OF    THE    MEMOIR. 


REMAINS. 


A   TALE. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FIFTEEN. 

ABOUT  the  close  of  the  year  1813  there  stood,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Saranac,  a  small,  neat  cottage,  which  peeped 
forth  from  the  surrounding  foliage  the  image  of  rural  quiet 
and  contentment ;  the  scenery  around  it  was  wildly  yet 
beautifully  romantic;  the  clear  blue  river,  glancing  and 
sparkling  at  its  feet,  served  only  as  a  preparative  for  another 
and  more  magnificent  view,  where  the  stream,  gliding  on  to 
the  west,  was  buried  in  the  broad  white  bosom  of  Champlain, 
which  stretched  back,  wave  after  wave,  in  the  distance,  until 
lost  in  faint  blue  mists  that  veiled  the  sides  of  its  guardian 
mountains,  seeming  more  lovely  from  their  indistinctness. 

On  the  borders  of  the  Saranac  the  little  village  of  Platts- 
burgh  had  sprung  up,  in  picturesque  wildness,  amid  the 
loveliest  haunts  of  nature,  imparting  to  the  mind,  by  its 
indications  of  man's  presence  with  the  joys  and  sufferings 
ever  attendant  in  his  train,  a  deeper  interest  than  a  scene  of 
solitary  nature  would  ever  have  inspired.  Of  all  the  low- 
roofed  and  shaded  dwellings  which  rose  around,  the  one 
named  above,  although  less  indicative  of  wealth,  was  by  far 
the  most  striking,  from  its  peculiarly  beautiful  situation;  the 
old-fashioned  piazza,  which  extended  in  front  of  the  building, 
was  shaded  with  vines  and  honeysuckle  just  budding  into 
life  ;  the  turf  on  the  bank  of  the  river  was  of  the  richest  and 
brightest  emerald,  and  the  wild  rose  and  sweetbriar,  which 
twined  over  the  neat  enclosure,  seemed  to  bloom  with  more 


156  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

delicate  freshness  and  perfume  within  the  bounds  of  this 
earthly  paradise.  It  was  May — the  blue  waves  of  the  Sara- 
nac,  so  lately  released  from  their  icy  bondage,  bounded  along 
with  music  and  gladness,  to  meet  and  mingle  with  its  parent 
lake;  the  fairy  isles,  so  beautifully  throned  on  its  sparkling 
bosom,  robed  in  all  the  rich  luxuriance  of  spring,  and  the 
song  of  the  birds  floated  forth  on  the  balmy  air  like  a  strain 
of  seraph  melody. 

The  proprietor  of  this  lowly  mansion  was  a  gray-haired 
and  respectable  physician,  whose  life  had  been  spent  in 
toiling  to  mitigate  the  terrors  of  disease,  and  to  obtain  a  sup- 
port  for  his  lovely  and  delicate  family.  A  few  words  may 
serve  to  describe  a  character  so  open  and  ingenuous,  and  a 
fate  so  common  to  dispositions  like  his.  Early  in  life  he 
evinced  a  studious  and  scientific  turn  of  mind,  and  had 
seized  upon  the  profession  of  medicine  with  all  the  earnest 
ness  of  youth.  Thirsting  for  knowledge,  he  plunged  into 
its  deepest  waters,  and,  after  a  few  years  of  unremitting 
study,  entered  upon  life  with  a  character  of  firm  and  unbend 
ing  integrity,  and  an  almost  childlike  simplicity  of  manners 
and  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  world.  This  was  a  dispo 
sition  illy  calculated  to  gain  wealth  or  even  competence  ;  he 
knew  not  how  to  snatch  the  golden  sands  that  lay  within  his 
grasp ;  he  could  not  be  servile  to  the  rich  or  tyrannical  to 
the  poor,  and  passed  through  life  unblest  with  other  riches 
than  those  of  an  approving  conscience,  and  the  tributes  of 
respect  and  love  from  those  whose  welfare  he  had  promoted 
at  the  expense  of  his  own.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  saw 
and  loved  a  beautiful  and  high-spirited  girl,  and  obeying  the 
impulse  of  affection  rather  than  the  calm  reasonings  of 
prudence,  he  united  her  fortunes  with  his  own,  and  settled 
down  for  life  in  this  lowly  and  humble  retreat  we  have  vainly 
attempted  to  describe.  At  the  time  of  our  simple  tale,  he 
was  far  in  the  decline  of  life,  but  still  performing  his  profes 
sional  duties.  He  found  his  happiness  in  promoting  the 


REMAINS.  157 

comfort  of  his  family  and  enjoying  the  quiet  pleasures  of  his 
cheerful  fireside.  The  circle  which  had  once  closed  around 
it  was  now  sadly  diminished  by  the  inroads  of  death,  but 
three  lovely  plants  still  clung  by  the  side  of  their  parent 
tree,  and  although  one  of  these  remaining  blossoms  seemed 
already  fading  from  the  eyes  of  her  idolizing  parents, 
there  was  much  of  pure  and  refined  enjoyment  in  this  lowly 
cottage,  unknown  in  the  haunts  of  wealth  and  worldly  plea 
sure.  The  two  eldest  children  were  sisters ;  the  one  was 
seventeen,  and  the  other  had  nearly  attained  her  sixteenth 
year.  Emily,  the  eldest,  notwithstanding  her  youth,  was 
the  belle  of  the  little  village,  and  the  life  of  her  family 
circle.  Her  form  and  face  might  have  been  taken  for  the 
model  of  a  Hebe — all  health  and  gaiety — her  complexion  of 
pure  red  and  white,  had  never  been  blanched  by  the  cold 
touch  of  disease,  and  her  smiling  lip,  with  its  childlike 
dimples,  seemed  bidding  defiance  to  care  and  sorrow,  with 
all  their  retinue  of  sighs,  tears,  and  wrinkles ;  her  dark 
auburn  hair  curled  in  natural  and  tiny  ringlets  on  her  soft 
white  neck  and  shoulders ;  her  full  hazel  eye  wore  an 
expression  of  habitual  smiling  archness,  and  her  birdlike 
voice  was  for  ever  bursting  forth  in  snatches  of  wild  and 
untaught  melody.  Oh !  dearly  did  her  father  love,  at  the 
close  of  the  long,  weary  day,  to  draw  forth  his  beloved  flute 
and  practise  some  soul-stirring  air,  while  the  voice  of  the 
light-hearted  maiden  blent  with  its  notes,  and  her  feet  danced 
lightly  to  its  measure.  Such  was  Emily,  whose  sprightli- 
ness  and  native  good  sense  had  rendered  her  the  favourite 
of  her  father. 

But  how  shall  I  describe,  in  words,  the  high-souled,  the 
almost  ethereal  Melanie  ?  Oh !  that  memory  could  paint  on 
other  tablets  than  those  of  the  heart !  Oh !  that  we  could 
transfer  to  lifeless  paper  the  warm  and  glowing  images  which 
she  has  there  implanted !  then  might  I  picture  that  fragile 
form,  which  seemed  every  day  fading  into  more  spiritual 


158  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

fragility;  that  broad,  high  brow,  through  which  the  blue 
reins  coursed  like  silken  threads,  so  feeble  and  transparent ; 
that  veil  of  dark  and  luxuriant  hair  parted  so  meekly  above 
it,  and  flowing,  in  long,  waving  tresses,  on  her  neck ;  that 
cheek,  now  pale  as  the  snow  of  December,  now  flushed  with 
a  hue  too  intense  for  health ;  and  that  eye,  one  moment 
melting  with  the  warmest  tears  of  earthly  emotion,  and  the 
next,  sparkling  with  the  radiant  light  of  angelic  inspiration ! 
She  seemed  not  a  being  of  the  present,  all  her  confidence  in 
the  happiness  of  earth  was  buried  with  the  past,  and  all  her 
hopes  of  pure,  exalted  blessedness  were  merged  in  the  vast 
future  of  eternity.  Ardent  and  enthusiastic  in  her  tempera 
ment,  she  had  loved.  Highly  and  poetically  imaginative, 
she  had  invested  the  object  of  her  affection  with  the  highest 
and  most  exalted  qualities  of  our  nature,  and  when  stern, 
unbending  truth  dissolved  those  bright  dreams  of  fancy  in 
which  she  had  lived  and  revelled — when  she  beheld  in  sober 
reality  that  he  upon  whom  she  had  bestowed  her  affections 
was  unworthy  of  the  sacred  trust,  her  mind  received  a  shock 
only  to  be  felt  or  imagined  by  a  spirit  like  her  own — gentle, 
confiding,  and,  at  the  same  time,  bearing  within  itself  a 
standard  of  lofty  honour,  of  pure  sentiment,  and  high  and 
heavenly  virtue,  by  which  she  judged  of  the  world  around 
her,  it  was  indeed  an  overwhelming  blow  ;  but  hers  was  not 
the  mind  to  waste  itself  in  fruitless  repinings,  and  bury  all  its 
wealth  of  intellect  and  affection  in  the  grave  of  one  disap 
pointed  hope:  far  from  it!  Upon  its  first  short  voyage  on 
the  cold  waters  of  life,  her  little  bark  had  been  wrecked,  and 
it  now  turned  back  to  the  quiet  haven  of  home  with  a  meek 
and  gentle  confidence,  to  bestow  upon  her  family  that  love 
which  was  still  treasured  in  her  heart,  and  direct  her  powers 
of  mind  to  higher  and  holier  purposes  than  before.  But  if 
her  spirit  was  strong  in  misfortune,  her  delicate  frame  par 
took  not  of  that  strength :  although  the  stream  of  affliction 
had  passed  over  the  fragile  flower,  it  had  planted  in  the  pale 


REMAINS.  159 

blossom  the  germs  of  decay — she  seemed  a  spirit  in  the  home 
and  with  the  friends  of  her  childhood — she  was  with  them, 
but  not  </them.    Thought  faded  from  her  eye,  the  buoyancy 
from  her  step,  and  her  voice  no  longer  mingled  with  the  gay- 
hearted  carols  of  her  sister.     Her  hopes  were  now  rested 
upon  a  firmer  foundation  than  that  of  earth,  and  while  she 
walked   day  by  day  more   deeply  into  "  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,"  her  soul  and  its  pure  and  heavenly  faith 
waxed  brighter  and  brighter  to  the  close.     The  dark  mists  of 
receding  time  seemed  to  blend  with  the  brilliant  fore-shadow- 
ings  of  a  blessed  eternity,  and  impart  to  her  manners  an 
habitual  and  subdued  mournfulness,  changed  at  times  to  the 
loftiest  elevation,  as  she  caught  some  unwonted  flash  from 
that  far  land  of  light  towards  which  she  was  slowly  and 
hopefully  journeying.     Her  heart,  with  its  warm  and  glow 
ing  tenderness,  still  clung  to  the   beings  of  her  early  love, 
and  when  she  saw  how  deeply  they  mourned  her  visible 
decline,   with   a   sad    sweetness    she   resumed    her   wonted 
avocations,  though  each  word  and  act  was  tinged  with  the 
lofty  and  spiritual  enthusiasm  of  her  nature.     If  she  read, 
her  mind  sought  fitting  aliment  in  the  holy  sublimity  of  Mil 
ton,  or  the  melancholy  force  and  grandeur  of  Young ;  if  she 
drew,  faces  and  forms  of  aerial  and  unearthly  beauty  sprung 
from  her  pencil ;  and  if  she  sung,  the  wild  and  tremulous 
melody  of  her  voice  thrilled  while  it  charmed  the  listener. 
She  was  dying  !     For  the  brief  space  of  sixteen  years  she 
had  been  a  habitant  of  earth — she  had  tasted  of  its  purest 
joy  and  its  keenest  sorrow,  and  now,  with  a  calm  and  trust 
ful  earnestness,  she  was  hastening  to  the  home  of  the  weary. 
Still  there  were  deep  and  tender  ties  which  bound  her  below. 
Her  mother  she  adored ;  her  spirited  and  highly-gifted  little 
brother  she  watched  with  a  mother's   fondness;  the  sister, 
the  beautiful  and  light-hearted  Emily,  she  loved  with  more 
than  sisterly  affection  ;  and  her  country,  again  threatened  by 
the  power  of  a  foreign  throne,  while  scarcely  shadowed  by 


160  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

the  banner  of  its  new-born  freedom — her  country,  its  strug 
gles  and  its  welfare,  was  still  a  theme  of  deep  and  engrossing 
interest.  Such  was  Melanie  Mentreville — such  as  far  as 
language  can  imperfectly  portray  the  lovely  yet  too  un 
earthly  form  unfolded  to  my  "  mind's  eye"  like  an  aerial 
vision — such  the  gentle  yet  elevated  spirit  which  is  mingling 
with  every  dream  of  fancy,  and  would  fain  embody  itself  in 
words. 

Those  who  seek  in  these  few  pages  for  a  regular  and 
eventful  talc,  will  rise  disappointed  from  the  perusal ;  it  is 
nothing  more  than  a  faint  and  imperfect  sketch  of  sentiments 
and  scenes  which  have  long  since  passed  away,  with  their 
actors,  "  to  the  dim  burial  isles  of  the  past,"  and  which,  still 
living  vividly  as  ever  in  the  ideal  world  of  memory,  I  would 
once  more  introduce  upon  the  stage  of  life  as  beings  of  real 
and  actual  existence. 

It  was  a  glorious  evening  in  May  ;  the  sun  was  just  retiring 
to  his  couch  in  the  west,  arrayed  in  all  the  splendid  livery  of 
a  northern  sunset ;  the  groves  of  pine  and  elm  upon  the 
lake  shore  were  bathed  in  his  golden  hue,  and  their  tall 
shadows  were  reflected  in  the  clear  depths  beneath  ;  the 
distant  mountains  of  Vermont,  which  bounded  the  horizon, 
were  shrouded  with  a  veil  of  dream-like  glory  blending 
shade  by  shade  with  the  blue  tints  above,  till  heaven 
and  earth  seemed  one ;  and  that  heaven !  oh  that  pen 
could  describe  its  calm  and  solemn  magnificence;  the  clouds 
of  amber  and  gold,  tinted  and  fringed  with  crimson,  floating 
over  the  pure  depths,  moving  as  in  sleep  to  their  bright  western 
home,  while  a  rich  blending  of  purple  and  green  rose  up  from 
the  horizon  as  if  parting  to  meet  them  on  their  mid-career. 
It  was  at  this  glorious  sunset  hour  that  the  two  sisters  had 
repaired  to  the  piazza  of  their  little  cottage  to  breathe  the 
invigorating  air  of  spring  ;  and  each  to  enjoy  with  their 
peculiar  feelings  the  lovely  and  solemnizing  influence  of  the 
scene.  With  the  last  ray  of  the  golden  sunlight  playing  over 


REMAINS.  161 

her  pale  upraised  features,  Melanie  stood  beside  one  of  the 
vine-wreathed  columns,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  and 
her  full  dark  eyes  bent  earnestly  upon  the  wild  and  purified 
drapery  of  the  heavens,  now  fading  into  dimness,  now  com 
bining  and  bursting  forth  hues  more  gorgeous  than  before. 
Emily  was  bending  over  a  rose-tree  in  the  little  enclosure, 
twining  a  fairy  wreath  of  the  wild  sweetbriar,  while  the  lively 
air  which  she  almost  unconsciously  warbled,  as  if  in  unison 
with  the  character  of  the  scene,  died  away  in  tones  of  plain 
tive  and  tremulous  sweetness.  For  a  few  moments  the  silence 
was  unbroken,  until  Emily,  springing  lightly  to  her  sister's 
side,  exclaimed,  while  her  fine  features  beamed  with  an  expres 
sion  of  affectionate  gaiety,  "  How  can  you  look  so  sad, 
Melanie,  when  all  around  us  is  breathing  the  very  spirit  of 
happiness  ?  Do  not  the  clouds  you  gaze  upon  make  your  heart 
feel  light  and  airy  as  themselves  ?  Will  not  these  sweet  flowers 
I  have  twined  for  you,  impart  something  of  their  own  hue  to 
your  cheek  and  your  thoughts  ?" 

Melanie  gently  took  the  wreath  from  her  hand  and  replied, 
"  You  mistake  me,  sister,  I  am  not  sad — never  perhaps  did  I. 
experience  a  moment  of  more  exquisite  joy,  for  I  thought, 
that  ere  those  clouds  had  many  times  fleeted  away  to  their 
bright  home  in  the  west,  my  freed  spirit  might  soar  above 
them  and  the  great  orb  which  imparts  their  brilliance ;  to  the 
source  of  all  light,  all  love ;  that  ere  those  flowers  had  faded 
with  the  blasts  of  autumn,  I  might  rest  in  that  fair  land, 
where  flowers  of  undying  bloom,  bathe  for  ever  in  the  river  of 
the  waters  of  life ;  where  there  is  no  more  winter  to  chill  the 
bright  buds  of  nature,  or  the  far  more  fragile  blossoms  of  the 
heart." 

"  Oh,  Melanie !  Melanie !"  said  Emily,  passing  her  arm 
around  her  sister's  neck,  and  bursting  into  tears  ;  "  you  will 
break  my  heart.  Would  you  so  gladly  leave  us  all — father 
and  mother,  and  me — and — " 

"  No,  no,"  replied  Melanie,  earnestly ;  "  but  even  though 


162  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

you  should  see  me  no  more,  I  feel,  I  know,  that  I  shall  not 
leave  you,  my  own,  my  only  sister.  The  thought  may  be  a 
presumptuous  one,  but  something  within  tells  me  that  I  shall 
see  you,  shall  love  you  as  dearly  as  now,  perhaps,  even  be 
permitted  to  watch  over  and  protect  you,  and  oh  Emily,  were 
not  tJds  happiness !" 

She  replied  only  by  a  warmer  pressure  of  the  pale  hand 
within  her  own,  and  borne  away  by  the  suggestions  of  her 
wild  fancy,  Melanie  continued — 

"  Yes,  Emily,  though  this  weak  and  wasted  frame  may  be 
gone  from  among  you,  my  spirit  shall  be  with  you ;  yours 
will  be  the  blessed  task  of  soothing  the  pillow  of  disease,  when 
our  beloved  parents  shall  tread  the  pathway  I  have  trodden  ; 
but  think  not  that  Melanie,  the  child  of  their  love,  will  be  far 
from  them  in  that  parting  hour— when  you  are  in  sorrow,  my 
soul  shall  plead  for  you  at  the  throne  of  eternal  mercy — and 
when  you  are  happy,  my  voice  shall  whisper  in  your  soul  of 
that  Heavenly  Father,  from  whose  treasures  of  love  cometh 
all  happiness  on  earth,  and  all  your  hopes  of  blessedness  in 
Heaven !  Do  not  weep,  Emily,  I  shall  love  you  all  with  a 
purer  and  holier  love.  My  kind-hearted  and  ingenuous  father, 
my  high-souled,  my  beloved  mother ;  you,  my  sweet  blossom  ; 
and  you  also,  my  noble  little  brother,"  she  added,  as  the 
lovely  boy  bounded  over  the  threshold,  and  she  placed  her 
hand  caressingly  on  his  long  dark  curls. 

"  Oh  !  sister,  sister  !"  cried  Alfred,  with  all  the  eagerness  of 
boyhood,  "  oh !  the  sights  that  1  have  seen  to-day  !  I  have 
crossed  the  river  in  a  canoe,  and  I  have  been  up  to  the  old  fort, 
and  I  have  seen  the  militia-men  training,  and  the  flags,  and  the 
drums,  and  the  big  cannon,  and  all ! — didn't  you  hear  it  fire  ? 
Sister  Emmy  and  Mr.  Selden  said  I  should  be  a  soldier.  Shall 
I  not,  dear  sister  ?"  and  with  a  martial  air  the  miniature  hero 
strode  up  and  down  the  piazza  as  if  courting  admiration. 

"  Fie,  Alfred  !"  replied  Emily,  to  whose  lip  the  smile  had 
returned  as  before,  "  has  the  red  coat  and  the  gay  epaulette 


REMAINS.  163 

charmed  you  so  soon  ?  Remember,  my  little  brother,  that  the 
life  of  a  soldier  is  a  life  of  hardship,  and  his  employment  a 
fierce  and  deadly  one  •»  those  glittering  bayonets  have  made 
many  a  mother  childless,  and  those  gay  cockades  cover  many 
a  worthless  or  deceitful  brain.  No  !  never  be  a  soldier,  Alfred." 

"  Say  not  so,  Emily,"  exclaimed  Melanie  ;  "  though  we  now 
smile  at  the  proud  step  and  flashing  eye  of  the  mimic  warrior, 
I  can  read  his  fate  in  them.  If  his  life  is  spared,  that  sprightly 
and  slender  form  will  expand  into  the  tall  and  athletic  man, 
and  the  spark  that  is  now  warming  into  life  his  unfledged 
fancy,  will  strengthen  into  a  glowing  and  unquenchable  flame  ; 
and  as  it  now  prompts  to  those  tones  and  gestures  of  mock 
defiance  and  command,  it  will  lead  him  on  to  deeds  of  high 
and  lofty  daring.  Yes  !  thou  wilt  be  a  soldier,  my  little 
Alfred — noble,  generous,  high-souled,  and  brave;  all,  all — " 
her  voice  trembled  as  she  added,  "  all  I  once  thought  another." 

"  Yes,  I  ivitt  be  a  soldier,"  echoed  the  youthful  candidate 
for  fame — "  a  brave  and  an  honourable  soldier ;"  and  he 
bounded  away  through  the  open  door,  while  the  hall  rang 
with  his  shouts. 

For  a  few  moments  Melanie  stood  with  her  hands  clasped 
upon  her  bosom  as  if  in  mental  prayer  for  the  interesting  boy 
whose  fate  she  had  prophesied ;  and  Emily  seemed  buried  in 
deep  revery,  her  head  bowed,  and  her  hands  unconsciously 
pulling  the  leaves  from  a  splendid  moss  rose,  which  was  half 
concealed  in  her  bosom.  The  silence  was  at  length  broken 
by  the  soft  voice  of  Melanie.  "  Whence  came  that  sweet  rose, 
sister  Emily  ?"  The  maiden  started  from  her  revery,  blushed 
deeply,  and  drew  the  bud  from  the  folds  of  her  handkerchief. 

"  Forgive  me,  Melanie — 1 — Walter — Mr.  Selden  left  it  for 
you,  and  I — I  forgot  to  give  it  you." 

A  faint  sweet  smile  passed  over  Melanie's  delicate  features 
as  she  replied — "  Keep  it,  Emily  ;  save  as  a  proof  of  brotherly 
kindness,  his  gifts  are  valueless  to  me." 

Emily  gazed  upon  the  calm  and  gentle  face  before  her  with 


164  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

a  mingled  expression  of  doubt  and  joyful  inquiry.  "  Do  you 
not — tell  me  dear  sister — I  fear  it  cannot  be  your  heart  belies 
your  words  ?" 

Melanie  took  her  trembling  hand  in  both  her  own  and 
replied,  while  a  shade  of  deep  sadness  mingled  with  the  affec 
tionate  simplicity  of  her  manner, 

"  No,  my  beloved  sister,  you  wrong  me ;  what  I  say  is  the 
true,  the  only  language  of  my  heart.  I  will  own  to  you  that 
once  had  I  known  Walter  Selden,  I  might  have  returned  with 
ardour  what  I  now  view  with  pain  as  an  unfortunate  and 
misplaced  attachment.  You  believe  it  not  Emily,  but  I  am 
dying.  Is  it  for  me,  whose  every  thought  and  hope  should 
rest  upon  that  world  of  spirits  to  which  I  am  hastening,  to 
twine  my  affections  around  an  earthly  idol  1  Is  it  for  me 
whose  wayward  love  hath  once  been  crushed  and  blighted,  to 
bid  it  arise  Phoenix-like  from  the  ashes  of  its  destruction  with 
new  hopes  and  new  confidence  1  And  more  than  all,  is  it  for 
me  to  encourage  a  visionary  attachment,  which  would  blast 
the  hopes,  the  young  affections  of  a  sister  dearer  than  life? 
Blush  not,  Emily;  I  have  read  the  pure  volume  of  your  heart 
perhaps  more  clearly  than  yourself;  I  have  long  studied  its 
pages  with  pain,  yet  not  without  a  deep,  strong  hope  for  the 
future.  When  I  am  gone,  Emily,  his  now  ardent  passion  will 
be  buried  in  my  grave  ;  he  will  only  remember  me  as  a  sad 
and  pleasing  vision ;  and  as  day  by  day  that  impression  waxes 
fainter,  he  will  behold  the  loveliness,  the  worth  of  your  mind 
and  person;  and  although  it  is  denied  to  me  below,  my 
rejoicing  spirit  shall  behold  the  union  of  those  two  my  heart 
loves  best,  my  sister  and  my  friend." 

Emily  threw  herself  in  tears  upon  the  neck  of  her  sister. 
"  Oh  !  Melanie,  Melanie,  my  kind,  my  generous  Melanie ! 
how  can  I  believe  that  any  one  who  has  ever  looked  upon 
that  bright  heavenly  face  could  ever  cast  one  glance  upon  a 
simple  unideal  child  of  earth  like  me." 

"  And  the  loveliest  of  earth's  creations,"  was  Melanie's 


REMAINS.  165 

fond  reply  as  she  passed  her  hand  over  the  silken  ringlets  and 
blushing  cheek  of  the  tearful  maiden. 

****** 
A  year  had  past  by";  the  flowers  had  again  bloomed,  and 
were  again  fading,  and  time  (as  ever)  had  brought  many  a 
change  upon  his  restless  pinions.  The  little  village  of  Platts- 
burg  still  looked  forth  as  sweetly  from  amid  its  groves  and 
streams ;  the  Saranac  flowed  on  with  as  glad  a  music ;  the 
billows  rolled  as  proudly  on  the  broad  bosom  of  Champlain, 
but  armed  fleets  in  all  their  dreadful  array  now  rode  upon  its 
waters ;  the  voice  of  the  distant  cannon  echoed  back  from  its 
shores,  and  martial  music  pealed  long  and  loud  through 
those  once  quiet  abodes  of  peace.  It  was  September,  1814, 
that  year  which  commenced  with  bloodshed  and  dismay,  and 
closed  with  a  triumph  which  shall  never  fade  from  the  annals 
of  our  history,  while  America  hath  a  heart  to  warm  with  the 
glow  of  patriotism,  or  a  voice  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of 
the  brave.  Upon  the  tenth  morning  of  this  memorable  month 
we  would  re-open  the  scene  of  our  simple  drama  ;  a  morning 
which  rose  upon  our  feeble  band  of  intrepid  patriots  in  doubt 
and  anxiety,  and  inspired  in  the  breasts  of  their  numerous 
and  well-regulated  foes,  new  hopes,  new  confidence  of  vic 
tory.  Well  might  they  look  around  upon  that  mighty  and 
veteran  host  of  fourteen  thousand  warriors,  who  had  con 
quered  in  Spain,  France,  and  the  Indies,  and  forward  upon 
that  weak  but  well-disciplined  band  of  fifteen  hundred,  com 
manded  by  the  brave  McCombe,  and  predict  the  triumph 
which,  in  all  human  probability,  must  necessarily  ensue. 
After  a  long  period  of  alternate  success  and  defeat,  the  Bri 
tish  forces  poured  in  their  utmost  strength  upon  the  northern 
frontier,  and  determined,  by  a  decisive  attack  upon  the  com 
paratively  unprotected  village,  to  open  a  free  passage  into 
the  heart  of  that  country  which  they  had  laboured  so  long 
and  so  fruitlessly  to  subdue.  Their  officers  were  men  who 
sought  in  foreign  victories  a  glory  which  should  enrol  their 


1G6  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

names  for  ever  upon  the  pages  of  England's  history  ;  they 
fought  for  distinctions,  for  titles,  for  wealth,  and  they  knew 
not  the  force  of  a  feeble  arm,  when  directed  and  nerved  by 
that  holy  patriotism  which  could  toil  and  bleed,  ere  it  would 
yield  one  single  minutia  of  that  independence  bequeathed  to 
them  by  the  valour  of  their  immortal  sires. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth,  the  land  force  commanded  by 
Sir  George  Prevost  had  approached  the  village  of  Plattsburg, 
and  their  fleet  was  prepared  to  make  the  attack  by  water  at 
the  same  time  that  the  army  entered  the  town,  and  overcame 
the  feeble  resistance  which  it  expected  to  meet. 

Meanwhile  the  village  presented  a  scene  of  deep  and  thrill 
ing  interest.  The  small  force  which  remained  after  the  de 
parture  of  the  American  army  for  Lake  Erie  was  collected 
by  their  gallant  leader  General  McCombe,  in  the  fort  Morvan, 
situated  on  the  borders  of  the  lake,  a  short  distance  from  the 
banks  of  the  Saranac.  Here  they  had  planted  their  cannon, 
and  collected  their  means  of  defence  ;  here  they  were  to  con 
quer,  or  if  courage  and  skill  proved  vain,  here  they  were  to 
die.  Guards  and  sentinels  were  posted  at  intervals  along  the 
streets,  parties  of  volunteers  were  continually  sallying  forth 
to  harass  the  enemy,  and  prepare  themselves  for  the  decisive 
struggle,  and  expresses  were  riding  back  and  forth  on  their 
foaming  steeds, -shouting  to  the  eager  listener  the  position  of 
the  army,  as  it  approached  nearer  and  nearer,  or  hastening  in 
silence  to  the  fort  to  discharge  some  embassy  of  mighty  and 
mysterious  import.  The  greater  part  of  the  peaceful  inhabi 
tants  had  fled  from  the  scene  of  bloodshed  and  commotion, 
and  many  a  gun  and  bayonet  were  glittering  in  the  windows 
of  their  peaceful  dwellings,  thus  converted  into  barracks  for 
the  use  of  the  soldiery,  or  hospitals  for  the  wounded. 

The  mists  of  the  morning  had  just  rolled  from  the  bosom 
of  the  waters,  and  the  sun,  struggling  through  the  dense 
clouds,  had  just  kissed  the  light  foam  upon  its  surface,  when 
a  tall,  manly  youth  was  seen  approaching  the  guards  on  the 


REMAINS.  167 

northern  bank  of  the  Saranac  with  a  hurried,  anxious,  yet 
half-hesitating  air.  Hi«  form  was  slight  and  graceful  in  the 
extreme,  and  the  partly  military  dress  which  he  wore  dis 
played  to  advantage  its  symmetry  of  proportion.  He  carried 
his  long  rifle  in  one  hand,  and  a  massive  old-fashioned  sword 
was  fastened  by  an  embroidered  belt  to  his  side ;  his  lips 
were  firmly  compressed,  but  his  dark  blue  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  ground,  as  if  some  sad,  subduing  thought  had  min 
gled  with  the  sterner  occupants  of  his  mind.  As  he  ap 
proached  the  sentinels,  each  touched  his  cap  in  respect,  and 
he  passed  on  unquestioned,  until  pausing  at  the  gate  of  Dr. 
Mentreville's  cottage,  he  slowly  and  softly  raised  the  latch  ; 
a  curtain  was  drawn  aside,  a  pale  face  peeped  from  the  win 
dow,  a  light  step  was  heard  in  the  hall,  and  Emily  stood  upon 
the  threshold.  A  year  had  wrought  many  changes  in  the 
person  of  this  lovely  girl ;  her  form  was  taller  and  more 
womanly,  but  had  lost  much  of  its  roundness ;  sorrow  and 
midnight  watching  had  faded  the  roses  on  her  cheek,  and 
tears  had  been  its  frequent  visitants ;  but  her  features,  in 
their  morning  freshness  and  gorgeous  bloom,  had  never 
seemed  half  so  lovely.  A  flush  sprang  to  her  face,  and  a 
light  to  her  eye,  as  she  stepped  forward  to  meet  the  stranger, 
and  extended  her  hand  with  a  frank  and  affecting  simplicity. 
"  Walter  !" — "  Emily  !"  His  heart  seemed  too  full  for  ano 
ther  word,  and  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  with  a  look  of  sad 
and  apprehensive  inquiry. 

"  Oh  !  do  not  ask  me,"  she  replied,  bursting  into  tears. 
"  Oh  !  that  I  could  give  you  some  gleam  of  comfort ;  that  I 
could  lay  down  my  worthless  life  for  my  sweet  sister  !  But 
it  may  not  be,  her  frame  grows  hourly  weaker,  and  her  mind 
more  strong ;  she  seems  all  soul — a  spirit  of  Heaven  fettered 
by  the  strong  affections  of  earth  ;  but  yet,  Walter,"  she  added, 
wiping  the  blinding  tears  from  her  eyes,  "  when  I  look  upon 
her  I  can  scarcely  find  it  in  my  heart  to  grieve ;  she  seems 
so  placid  and  so  happy,  like  an  infant  returning  to  the  arms 


1 68  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

of  its  parent :  it  is  only  when  I  look  upon  myself,  and  dear 
mother,  and  father,  and  you,  and  think  how  lonely,  how  deso 
late  we  shall  be,  that  I  feel  the  full  weight  of  sorrow." 

"  Desolate  !  desolate  indeed  !"  replied  the  young  man,  and 
unable  longer  to  control  his  emotion  he  turned  from  her,  and 
leaning  his  head  upon  the  little  column  where  Melanie  had 
so  often  rested,  gave  vent  to  his  excited  feelings  in  a  flood  of 
tears.  But  a  moment,  and  it  was  over — he  had  paid  his  tri 
bute  upon  the  altar  of  sorrowing  affection,  and  he  awoke  to 
the  remembrance  of  sterner  and  more  pressing  duties. 

"  Forgive  me,  Emily !" — his  cheek  burning  with  shame  at 
this  transitory  weakness — "  surely  the  being  for  whose  early 
fate  I  have  shed  these  unmanly  tears  must  form  my  best  apo 
logy  ;  yet  I  would  not  give  way  to  sorrow  upon  a  day  like 
this,  when  every  man  should  bring  a  cool  head  and  a  strong 
arm  to  the  succour  of  his  country." 

Emily's  pale  cheek  turned  yet  more  pallid,  as  she  exclaimed, 
"  Walter,  do  you — have  you  indeed  joined  yourself  with  those 
doomed  men  1"  and  her  eye  rested  upon  the  sword  and  rifle, 
which  she  had  not  before  perceived. 

"And  have  I  not,  Emily?  Would  you,  would  Melanie 
own  me  as  her — her  friend?  Would  she  not  blush  to  hear 
my  shame?  Would  not  the  blood  of  my  grandsire,  who 
fought  so  bravely  in  the  Revolution,  burn  and  scorch  in  the 
veins  of  his  dastardly  son,  if  I  refused  to  join  the  brave  band 
in  defence  of  my  native  village,  of  my  family,  and  of  you, 
sweet  Emily — and — and  Melanie  ?" 

"  And  if  you  are  defeated — " 

He  smiled  encouragingly. 

"  Why,  tlien,  Emily,  we  must  yield  like  men,  only  with 
our  lives.  But  we  shall  not  be  defeated — we  shall  conquer ! 
Brave  hearts  and  determined  hands  will  do  more  in  the  hour 
of  conflict  than  close  ranks  and  mere  animal  force." 

"  And  when  is  this  dreadful  hour  to  come?  W7hen  do  you 
expect  the  final  attack  ?" 


REMAINS.  169 

"  I  should  be  tempted  to  conceal  it,  little  trembler,"  replied 
the  youth,  "did  I  not  feel  that  I  have  already  too  long 
neglected  the  chief  object  of  my  visit.  From  the  reports  of 
the  expresses  and  scouts  who  have  returned,  we  expect  the 
enemy  to-morrow  morning,  when  we  shall  probably  be 
assailed  by  land  and  water.  This  place  will  be  the  scene 
of  bloodshed  and  confusion  :  you  cannot  remain  here — you 
must  fly." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it !"  exclaimed  Emily ;  "  father  is 
already  gone  in  search  of  waggons  to  convey  our  effects  ; 
but  my  sister,  my  poor  sister,  it  seems  almost  sacrilege  to 
disturb  and  perhaps  hasten  her  parting  moments  by  this 
precipitation ;  and  the  idea  is  so  distressing,  she  longs  so  to 
die  in  her  own  old  home.  I  can  read  it  in  every  look, 
though  she  will  not  name  it,  lest  we  subject  ourselves  to 
danger  for  her  sake.  You  know,  Walter,  we  should  have 
fled  long  since,  as  at  the  time  of  the  former  invasion,  but 
ever  since  that  short  sojourn  with  strangers,  she  has  seemed 
to  fade  more  rapidly.  It  was  breaking  up  all  the  sweet 
associations  and  habits  which  alone  seem  binding  her  to 
earth,  and  now,  when  she  has  so  short  a  time  to  live,  oh !  it 
is  a  cruel,  cruel  task!"  and  the  affectionate  girl  wept  faster 
than  before. 

"  I  feel  it  all,  dear  Emily,"  said  Walter,  "  but  were  it  not 
more  cruel  that  her  gentle  spirit  should  part  amid  the  roar 
of  cannon  and  the  shouts  of  the  combatants?  Then,  if  the 
British  conquer,  the  last  sounds  which  would  meet  her  ear, 
would  be  those  of  insult  and  of  lawless  triumph.  No,  no,  it 
is  impossible — you  must  fly.  Would  to  God  my  duties  did 
not  call  me  for  the  space  of  two  hours,  that  I  might  see  you 
all  in  safety,  and  then  return,  with  a  light  heart,  to  my  post. 
But  that  cannot  be  :  by  especial  favour  I  have  obtained  leave 
to  make  you  this  hasty  visit,  and,  upon  my  return,  the  band 
of  volunteers  which  I  have  joined  proceed  to  the  bank  above 
the  old  bridge,  the  station  deemed  most  advantageous  for 

12 


170  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

this  section  of  our  small  force.  So  you  see,  dear  Emily,  I 
cannot  aid  you  ;  but  you  say  your  father  is  gone — where, 
and  with  what  hopes  of  success?" 

"  He  started  before  daylight  this  morning,  to  obtain  a 
more  easy  conveyance  for  our  dear  invalid  than  our  old- 
fashioned  family  vehicle  affords,  and  waggons  to  convey  the 
family  and  our  most  valuable  effects ;  but  you  know  calamity 
and  terror  make  us  selfish,  and  the  inhabitants  having  fled, 
he  found  not  the  proper  means  of  conveyance  for  dear 
Melanie  in  the  village,  and  he  hastened  on  some  ten  or 
twelve  miles  in  the  country  to  obtain  them,  and  we  do  not 
expect  him  to  return  until  sunset." 

"  Good  heavens !"  exclaimed  Walter,  "  the  British  forces 
will  have  advanced  between  him  and  our  village,  and  he 
cannot  return  to  you.  Why  did  I  not  know  this  before?" 

Scarcely  had  he  spoken,  when  Mrs.  Mentreville  appeared 
on  the  threshold  of  the  open  door,  at  the  porch  of  which 
they  had  been  conversing.  Her  figure  was  about  the  middle 
height  and  delicately  formed,  and  her  features  retained  the 
traces  of  much  former  beauty,  but  deep  and  unremitting 
anxiety  had  wasted  a  form  naturally  feeble,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  calm  but  unutterable  grief  was  seated  in  her  full  dark 
eye.  As  she  advanced,  she  caught  the  expression  of  alarm 
in  the  face  of  young  Selden  and  her  daughter,  and  after  the 
first  silent  greeting  was  over  she  inquired,  "  What  were  you 
saying,  Walter  1  Do  not  fear  to  tell  me ;  nothing  can  alarm 
me  now." 

In  brief  words  Walter  repeated  his  apprehensions  that  her 
husband  might  be  prevented  from  returning,  and  their  flight 
would  shortly  become  impossible. 

"  Then  we  will  remain,"  replied  Mrs-  Mentreville  firmly. 
"  If  we  are  successful,  all  is  well ;  if  we  fail,  the  British  officers 
are  gentlemen  as  well  as  soldiers — they  have  mothers,  wives, 
and  daughters — they  will  protect  us.  I  only  fear  the  effect 
of  the  excitement  and  turmoil  upon  our  beloved  sufferer." 


REMAINS.  171 

Walter  sighed  deeply. 

"  God  will  protect  you,  my  dear  madam.  I  wish  I  could 
trust  more  implicitly  to  the  faith  and  honour  of  our  enemies. 
But  Dr.  Mentreville  may  still  return — all  may  yet  be  well. 
My  term  of  absence  is  almost  expired — can  1  not  see  Me- 
lanie  ?"  and  he  lowered  his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  as  if 
he  feared  to  breathe  aloud  a  name  so  sacred. 

The  mother  replied  not,  but  silently  taking  the  hand  of 
the  young  man,  she  led  him  into  the  chamber  of  the  dying 
girl.  It  seemed  not  like  the  abode  of  death  and  disease. 
The  spirit,  trembling,  hovering  within  its  boundaries,  ap 
peared  to  sanctify  its  resting-place.  There  was  no  gloom, 
or  darkness,  or  dreariness,  for  they  found  no  place  in  the 
mind  of  Melanie,  and  why  should  they  surround  her  frame 
without  ?  She  was  all  purity,  gentleness,  elevation — and  an 
air  of  soft  and  soothing  melancholy  pervaded  the  scene  of 
her  last  sufferings.  The  windows  opening  upon  the  river 
were  closed,  for  there  were  sights  and  sounds  of  too  ani 
mating  and  warlike  a  nature  to  meet  the  acute  eye  or  sensi 
tive  ear  of  the  dying  maiden  ;  but  a  casement  beside  her 
couch  was  thrown  back,  and  the  little  flower-garden  beneath 
it,  which  she  had  so  often  tended,  sent  up  the  perfume  of  its 
last  fading  blossoms  into  her  chamber,  while  the  quivering 
poplar-trees  waved  and  sighed  her  requiem  before  it,  and  the 
luxuriant  vines  twined  their  small  tendrils  round  the  lattice. 
The  sunlight,  broken  and  softened  by  the  green  branches, 
fell  in  chastened  splendour  upon  the  floor,  and  tinged  with  a 
yet  more  heavenly  radiance  the  pale,  bright  features  of 
Melanie.  The  couch  had  been  placed  beside  the  open  case 
ment,  that,  as  she  reclined  upon  its  pillows,  she  might  yet 
look  around  upon  the  scenes  so  dear  to  her;  and  well  do 
those  who  witnessed  remember  the  unearthly  loveliness  of 
her  form  and  face,  and  the  alternate  sadness — a  glorious 
hope  in  its  expression  as  she  bade  a  mental  farewell  to  the 
cherished  scenes  of  earth,  or  looked  forward  to  the  blessed 


172  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

home  which  she  was  seeking.  There  was  one  by  her  side 
who  watched  with  unwearied  care  and  childish  simplicity 
every  look  and  motion.  It  was  the  little  Alfred.  She  dearly 
loved  the  ardent  and  enthusiastic  boy,  and  his  young  heart 
clung  with  all  its  ardour  and  enthusiasm  to  the  one  who  most 
deeply  awakened  and  cherished  the  incipient  romance  of  his 
nature.  Now  that  he  beheld  her  thus  fading  from  before 
him,  he  hovered  for  ever  by  her  bedside,  and  hung,  like  one 
entranced,  upon  each  trembling  accent  of  her  voice.  This 
deep  and  subdued  affection  had  unlocked  a  new  fountain  in 
his  little  breast,  and  it  flowed  on,  overwhelming  all  the  petty 
selfishness  of  childhood,  and  quenching  all  save  the  flame  of 
military  ardour,  which  still  burned  silently  and  slowly,  though 
subdued  by  this  new  and  overpowering  sentiment  of  love  for 
his  gentle  and  intellectual  sister.  It  was  affecting  to  mark 
the  struggle  of  these  two  passions  in  his  young  mind.  At 
the  sound  of  the  distant  cannon,  the  roll  of  the  drum,  or  the 
shouting  of  the  express  as  he  rode  furiously  by,  he  would 
start  from  his  seat,  while  his  eye  kindled,  and  his  step 
involuntarily  kept  pace  with  the  music ;  then,  as  the  thought 
of  Melanie  rushed  over  his  mind,  he  would  turn  to  the  bed, 
take  her  hand  gently  in  his  own  little  palm,  and  whisper 
softly,  "Sister,  did  it  disturb  you?"  He  was  seated  on  his 
little  stool  by  her  side,  cutting  miniature  soldiers  from 
the  little  branches  of  a  wild  rose-tree,  and  watching  every 
change  in  his  sister's  face,  when  Mrs.  Mentreville,  Emily, 
and  Walter  entered.  Melanie  raised  her  head  from  the 
pillow  on  which  she  reclined,  and  extended  her  hand  feebly 
as  Selden  approached. 

"  Walter,  this  is  kind,"  said  she  ;  "  1  feared  I  should  not 
see  you  before  the  engagement,  and  then  we  may  never  meet 
again."  The  youth  spoke  not,  but  kissed  the  pale  hand 
which  rested  in  his  own.  She  continued  :  "  I  see  that  you 
have  joined  them,  that  you  are  going  forth  to  add  one  more 
brave  heart  and  arm  to  our  adventurous  band.  I  knew  it. 


REMAINS.  173 

Go,  Walter,  go!  and  my  blessing  and  the  blessing  of  God 
go  with  you.  If  you  conquer,  you  will  find  your  reward  in 
that  peace  which  you  have  fought  to  bestow ;  if  you  fall,  it 
will  be  in  the  performance  of  your  duty,  and  you  will  share 
the  grave  of  our  bravest  and  best.  Oh  !"  she  added,  clasp 
ing  her  hands,  and  her  eyes  kindling  with  enthusiasm,  "  Oh! 
that  the  shout  of  victory  might  be  the  last  earthly  sound 
wafted  to  my  spirit  as  it  seeks  the  portal  of  a  brighter 
world  !  With  the  voice  of  triumph  floating  around  its  path 
way,  how  blessed  might  be  its  departure !"  There  was  a 
moment's  deep  silence;  every  heart  seemed  too  full  for 
speech,  till  the  soft,  sweet  voice  of  Melanie  again  fell,  like 
a  bird  whisper,  upon  the  ears  of  the  motionless  group  : 
"  Walter,  do  not  deceive  me  ;  is  it  safe  for  my  dear  mother 
and  sister  to  remain  in  this  village,  abandoned  as  it  will  be 
to  the  soldiery  in  case  of  defeat  ?  God  only  knows  how 
deeply  1  have  longed  to  breathe  my  last  in  this  dear  home  of 
my  infancy,  but  for  the  love  of  mercy  let  not  this  idle  fancy 
endanger  the  safety  or  comfort  of  those  I  love  dearer  than 
myself."  Walter  replied  that  it  was  deemed  necessary  to 
fly,  and  that  her  father  had  gone  in  search  of  the  easiest 
means  of  conveyance  for  her.  She  sighed  deeply.  "  My 
own  dear  father ! — But  I  shall  not  need  them."  Immediately 
rallying  her  spirits,  while  the  faint  sunlight  smile,  so  peculiar 
to  herself,  played  over  her  sunlight  features,  she  again  ex 
tended  her  hand.  "  Let  me  not  detain  you,  Walter,  from 
Jhe  performance  of  those  duties  which  now  devolve  upon 
you.  Go!  When  I  hear  the  shouts  and  tumult  of  the 
battle,  I  will  pray  for  you,  if  on  earth — I  will  watch  over 
you,  if  released  from  its  fetters.  Oh!  do  not  look  so  sad! 
If  I  saw  not  the  mournful  faces  of  those  I  love,  my  soul  feels 
so  happy  I  could  almost  think  it  Paradise.  When  I  am 
gone,  remember  me  as  a  dream,  a  moonlight  vision  which 
never  formed  itself  into  reality  till  it  had  fled  ;  as  a  being 
whose  shadow  has  flitted  over  the  past,  whose  life  is  only  in 


174  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

the  future.  I  have  only  two  hopes,  two  wishes  upon  earth; 
one  for  my  country,  the  other — "  She  paused,  and  gazed 
fondly  upon  Walter  and  Emily  as  they  stood  beside  her. 
The  quick  glance  of  Emily  caught  her  meaning,  and  throw 
ing  herself  upon  Melanie's  bosom  she  looked  imploringly  in 
her  face.  "Fear  not,  my  sweet  blossom,"  whispered  Me- 
lanic,  "  I  cannot,  will  not  say  aught  which  you  could  wish 
unsaid."  Then  turning  to  Selden  she  said,  "  Farewell ;  may 
God  protect  and  prosper  you,  my  brotlwr!" 

The  tears  rushed  to  the  young  man's  eyes  as  he  cast  one 
long,  mournful  look  upon  the  delicate  and  spiritual  features, 
and  kissed  the  small,  wan  fingers  which  he  again  pressed,  but 
mastering  his  emotion  with  a  strong  effort,  he  turned  from 
the  room,  and  paused  a  moment  in  the  hall,  ere  he  could 
collect  sufficient  courage  to  leave  the  spot  which  contained  a 
being  so  lovely  (as  he  feared)  for  ever.  As  he  stood  thus, 
with  his  hand  upon  his  brow  and  his  eyes  bent  upon  the 
floor,  a  slight  noise  behind  him  attracted  his  attention.  He 
turned  ;  it  was  little  Alfred.  He  had  stolen  unperceived  from 
the  room,  and  was  examining  Walter's  rifle  with  looks  of 
earnest  and  admiring  attention,  and  too  much  absorbed  to  be 
conscious  of  the  owner's  presence  ;  he  was,  in  fancy,  loading, 
presenting,  firing,  and  performing  all  the  military  evolutions 
of  which  he  was  master  ;  when  he  at  length  perceived  Walter, 
he  sprang  to  his  side,  and  raising  his  bright  face  exclaimed 
in  an  eager  whisper — 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Selden  !  Mr.  Selden  !  take  me  with  you  to  the 
battle  ;  I  will  not  trouble  you  ;  I  will  load  your  gun,  and  I 
will  take  my  little  bow  and  arrow  and  fight  as  the  Indians  do  ; 
and  I  will  make  the  British  run — do,  do — take  me  !" 

"  Will  you  not  be  afraid,  my  dear  boy  ?"  said  Walter, 
scarcely  conscious  that  he  spoke. 

A  smile  of  contempt  curled  the  boy's  red  lip. 

"  Afraid  !  what  honourable  soldier  was  ever  afraid  ?"  and 
forgetting  his  caution  one  moment,  he  laughed  aloud.  The 


REMAINS.  175 

spark  had  been  awakened  in  his  little  bosom,  and  it  required 
all  the  soft  dews  of  feeling  and  reflection  to  quench  its  flame. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Alfred !"  said  Selden ;  "  would  you  leave 
your  sister,  your  dear  sister,  and  perhaps  never  see  her 
more  ?"  The  boy  looked  down ;  his  heart  swelled,  and  his 
lip  trembled  ;  but  his  desire  was  still  strong.  "  Your  father 
is  gone,  and  would  you  leave  your  mother  and  sisters  defence 
less  1  What  will  become  of  them  if  the  British  conquer?" 

Here  was  a  double  motive ;  here  were  united  the  two  ruling 
passions,  and  he  clapped  his  hands  in  the  eagerness  of  his 

joy- 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  stay  and  protect  them ;  and  mother  shall 
call  me  her  little  soldier,  and  sister  Emmy  will  not  be  afraid, 
and  no  one  shall  touch  dear  Melanie."  And  he  stole  back 
contented  to  the  stool  by  his  sister's  bedside,  to  indulge  his 
young  fancy  in  dreams  of  war,  and  victory,  and  defence. 

Walter  departed  ;  and  a  short  time  after  the  sound  of  martial 
music,  of  the  drum  and  fife,  and  the  trampling  of  many  feet, 
disturbed  the  silence  of  Melanie's  chamber.  Mrs.  Mentreville 
and  Emily  cast  an  anxious  glance  upon  the  apparently 
sleeping  sufferer,  and  softly  raised  the  curtain  of  the  window. 
It  was  the  band  of  volunteers  marching  out  to  their  post.  It 
was  mostly  composed  of  the  young  men  of  the  village,  led  by 
an  older  and  more  experienced  commander.  Their  hearts 
were  beating  high  with  hope  and  expectation,  and  they  kept 
pace  with  a  proud  and  even  step  to  the  lively  national  air 
which  swelled  in  loud  strains  upon  the  breeze.  As  they 
passed  the  house  of  Dr.  Mentreville,  many  an  eye  was  turned, 
and  many  a  glance  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  beautiful  face  of 
Emily,  as  she  leaned  from  the  window ;  but  she  knew  it  not, 
she  saw,  she  thought  of  but  one.  The  rest  passed  before  her 
like  a  colourless  picture,  and  she  beheld  the  form  of  Walter 
Selden,  vivid  and  distinct  from  the  pageantry  around  him ; 
his  eye  caught  hers  fixed  with  such  an  earnest  and  speaking 
gaze  upon  his  features.  Then  first  flashed  the  truth  like  an 


176  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

electric  spark  through  his  mind — the  idea  that  that  young 
and  guileless  maiden  might  feel  in  him  an  interest  deeper  than 
that  of  a  sister  or  a  friend.  A  burning  flush  rose  to  his  cheeks 
and  brow ;  he  bowed  low  ;  a  white  handkerchief  fluttered  from 
the  window,  and  it  was  again  closed.  All  had  passed  in  an 
instant,  but  it  was  one  of  those  which  contained  more  of  exis 
tence  than  many  a  long,  long  year :  in  that  one  look,  unseen 
save  by  its  object,  the  unconscious  girl  had  betrayed  the 
secret  most  dear,  most  sacred  to  her  heart ;  the  one  which 
she  had  fancied,  had  believed,  no  grief,  no  mental  torture 
could  force  her  to  reveal.  She  turned  from  the  window,  hid 
her  blushing  face  in  her  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Come  hither,  Emily,"  said  Melanie,  and  opened  her  arms, 
while  the  weeping  girl  threw  herself  into  them  and  sobbed 
upon  her  sister's  bosom.  Melanie  clasped  her  hands  over  the 
silken  tresses  of  the  young  mourner,  and  raised  her  head  as  in 
prayer.  Oh  !  that  I  had  a  purer  pencil  than  those  of  earth 
to  paint  the  forms,  the  expression,  of  those  two  lovely 
beings  !  Some  hovering  angel  might  have  transferred  that 
scene  to  his  immortal  tablets,  and  laid  it  up  among  the 
records  of  heaven,  as  one  bright  spot  shining  forth  from  the 
dark  annals  of  misery  and  crime.  Emily,  the  type  of  all 
earth's  loveliest,  warm  with  its  noblest  passions,  all  the  gene 
rous  impulses  of  youth,  weeping  upon  the  bosom  of  a  dying 
sister ;  and  that  sister,  forgetful  of  herself,  of  all  beside, 
praying  for  the  dear  one,  while  her  face  beamed  with  all  the 
hallowed  love  of  the  gentle  compassion  of  a  purified  being, 
and  her  dark  eyes  kindled  with  a  glow  reflected  only  from 
the  heaven  they  sought.  The  day  rolled  on,  that  long,  long 
dreary  day;  the  village  was  still  in  the  tumult  of  preparation ; 
the  expresses  rode  by  more  furious  than  ever ;  the  British 
forces  were  rapidly  approaching  the  village,  but  still  the  father, 
the  husband  came  not,  and  fears  for  his  safety  mingled  with 
the  agony  of  his  helpless  family.  Mrs.  Mentreville  was  a 
woman  of  acutely  delicate  and  sensitive  feelings,  but  they 


REMAINS.  177 

were  mastered  and  controlled  by  a  firm  judgment,  a  strong 
and  independent  mind.  She  had  long  seen  with  that  anguish, 
which  a  mother  only"  can  know,  the  certain  but  gradual 
decline  of  her  beloved  Melanie.  This  child  had  been  her 
favourite.  There  was  something  in  the  pure  and  lofty  enthu 
siasm  of  her  character  which  touched  a  responsive  chord  in 
her  own  bosom.  What  others  had  never  seen,  or  only 
marked  as  the  idle  fancies  of  a  romantic  girl,  revealed  to  her 
the  inmost  recesses  of  a  nature  composed  of  deep  sensibilities, 
quiet,  unobtrusive  affections,  and  lofty  aspirations  after  some 
thing  higher  and  holier  than  earth.  She  had  studied  her 
carefully ;  she  loved  her  to  idolatry,  and  she  only  who  has 
nurtured,  who  has  wept  over  the  death-bed  of  such  a  child, 
can  understand  the  bitterness  of  grief  which  converted  her 
whole  soul  into  a  fountain  of  agony.  She  saw  how  deeply 
it  distressed  Melanie  to  behold  her  sorrow,  and  many  an  hour 
banished  herself  from  her  bedside,  that  spot  most  sacred  upon 
earth,  that  she  might  drink  unperceived  from  the  darkness 
of  her  affliction,  and  in  solitude,  and  silence,  struggle  to 
subdue  her  heart  into  accordance  with  the  will  of  her 
Heavenly  Father.  Night  drew  on  ;  the  sky,  which  had  been 
clear,  became  suddenly  overcast ;  the  sunbeams  no  longer 
played  upon  the  quivering  poplars,  or  sparkled  gladly  in  the 
blue  depths  of  the  Saranac,  and  a  dark  thunder-gust  rolled  in 
black  volumes  from  the  west.  The  wing  of  the  storm,  as  it 
slowly  unfolded  in  the  heavens,  cast  a  deep  leaden  shadow  on 
the  waves  of  the  Champlain ;  and  the  white  foam  gathered 
upon  the  crest  of  each  receding  billow,  as  it  rolled  with  an 
angry  murmur  to  the  shore.  The  thunder  growled  faintly  in 
the  distance ;  pale  flashes  of  light  burst  at  intervals  from  the 
rent  clouds,  and  large  threatening  drops  fell  with  their  sullen 
patter  on  the  roof.  Every  thing  betokened  the  approach  of 
a  fearful,  though  transient  storm ;  and  a  fervent  prayer  for 
the  safety  of  her  husband  burst  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Men- 
treville,  as  she  closed  the  door  of  the  cottage  and  returned  to 


178  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

the  chamber  of  Melanie.  As  the  tempest  strengthened,  the 
lightning  streamed  in  with  broad  and  livid  flashes,  and  the 
thunder  rolled  on  its  tremendous  pathway  ;  each  crash  more 
loud  and  terrific  than  the  last.  Mrs.  Mentreville,  seated  on 
Melanie's  couch,  supported  her  head  upon  her  bosom,  and  an 
expression  of  deep  awe  rested  upon  her  pale  features.  Emily 
knelt  by  the  bedside  and  concealed  her  face  in  its  drapery, 
and  even  the  stout  heart  of  little  Alfred  quailed,  as  peal  after 
peal  burst  and  gleamed  above  them  and  around  them.  He 
lisped  no  word  of  fear,  but  grasped  the  hand  of  Melanie  in 
his  own,  gazed  wistfully  upon  her  placid  and  spiritual  features, 
as  if  something  whispered  within  him  that  no  danger  could 
assail,  no  bolts  from  the  artillery  of  heaven  descend  upon  a 
form  and  soul  so  heavenly.  No  terror,  no  dread  was  on  the 
face  of  Melanie ;  resting  upon  her  mother's  bosom,  she  gazed 
on  the  dark  rolling  masses  of  the  tempest-cloud,  and  trembled 
not  at  the  livid  flames,  or  the  pealings  of  the  loud-voiced 
thunder ;  her  soul  seemed  bursting  from  her  eyes  in  one  long 
gaze  of  solemn  adoration  ;  her  spirit  was  lifted  above  the 
warring  elements  ;  it  was  casting  its  burden  of  deep  and 
silent  worship  at  the  footstool  of  the  Almighty.  The  storm 
for  an  instant  paused  ;  the  thunder  peals  died  away  in  a  low 
muttering  growl,  and  an  awful  silence  reigned  in  the  heavens 
and  on  the  earth  ;  the  angel  of  the  tempest  had  retired  'neath 
his  veil  of  blackness  to  gather  the  scattered  thunderbolts  in 
his  hand,  and  to  wreathe  the  winged  lightnings  on  his  brow. 
Again  he  came  upon  his  wild  career — on,  on,  in  more  terrific 
majesty ;  the  dark  cloud  parted  with  a  fearful  charm,  while 
from  its  bosom  poured  a  sheet  of  flame,  broad,  livid,  terrible, 
and  a  fierce  crash,  as  of  a  shattered  world,  pealed  along 
the  heavens.  A  low  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of  Emily,  and 
Alfred  pressed  his  sister's  hand  with  a  convulsive  energy. 
The  grasp  recalled  Melanie's  wandering  senses ;  she  drew 
him  closer  to  her  bosom,  and  whispered  in  accents  low  but 
distinct,  heard  like  an  angel's  murmur  amid  the  roaring  of  the 


REMAINS.  179 

storm,  "  Fear  not,  my  Ijjtle  brother  ;  it  is  the  same  voice  which 
breathes  in  melody  among  the  flowers  of  spring ;  the  same 
hand  which  paints  the  rainbow  and  the  rose.  Fear  not,  it  is 
your  Father  and  your  God  !  He  sendeth  forth  the  spirit  of 
his  love,  and  heaven  and  earth  are  bathed  in  the  fountain  of 
its  glory  ;  he  stretcheth  out  the  arm  of  his  power  and  the  hills 
tremble  and  are  shaken.  Yea,"  she  added,  clasping  her  hands 
and  looking  upwards  with  an  expression  of  fervent  solemnity, 
"  yea ;  thou  only  art  great  who  coverest  thyself  with  light 
as  with  a  garment ;  who  stretchest  out  the  heavens  like  a  cur 
tain  ;  who  makest  the  clouds  thy  chariot ;  who  walkest  upon 
the  wings  of  the  wind." 

It  was  midnight.  The  storm  had  departed  as  it  came ;  the 
wind  sighed  mournfully,  yet  sweet  amid  the  dripping  branches  ; 
the  black  masses  rolled  from  the  firmament,  and  the  moon, 
struggling  through  their  gloom,  cast  her  feeble  and  trembling 
beams  on  the  still  agitated  waters ;  the  waves  rose  and  fell 
with  a  faint  wailing  murmur,  like  the  sobs  of  a  weeping  child  ; 
and  the  hearts  of  the  anxious  mourners  seemed  to  beat  in 
unison  with  their  sad  cadence.  A  taper  was  burning  on  the 
hearth  in  Melanie's  chamber,  but  the  curtain  was  withdrawn, 
and  the  pure  cold  rays  of  the  moon  trembled  faintly  upon  a 
being,  pure  and  heavenly  as  themselves.  She  slept — in  the 
hush  of  that  midnight  hour,  surrounded  by  those  best  loved 
on  earth,  she  slept.  Oh  !  the  peace,  the  unearthly  beauty  of 
that  sleep.  Her  head  lay  back  upon  the  pillow,  her  bright 
dark  hair  shaded  with  its  rich  tresses  the  exquisite  features 
of  her  face ;  the  serenity  of  heaven  seemed  resting  on  her 
broad,  pale  brow ;  her  dark  eyelids  lay  motionless  on  their 
snowy  pillow,  and  nought  could  reveal  to  the  beholder  that 
he  gazed  on  an  inhabitant  of  earth,  save  the  brilliant  flush 
which  mantled  upon  her  cheek,  as  if  death,  fearing  utterly  to 
destroy  a  work  so  beautiful,  had  breathed  a  deeper  crimson 
on  the  fresh  rose  of  health,  and  placed  it  'mid  the  lilies  of 
disease.  Emily  was  kneeling  beside  her,  her  face  bathed  in 


180  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

tears,  and  her  eyes  now  bent  with  a  wistful  sadness  upon  her 
sleeping  sister,  now  raised  as  in  prayer  to  Heaven  ;  a  petition 
seemed  trembling  upon  her  lips,  but  it  would  wing  its  way  no 
farther  ;  she  dared  not  pray  for  fetters  to  enchain  the  strug 
gling  spirit ;  she  could  not  even  wish  to  recall  the  fluttering 
prisoner  to  its  cage  of  clay,  and  the  prayer  died  unuttercd  on 
her  tongue.  Then  her  mind  wandered  far  away  from  that 
shaded  room  and  its  midnight  stillness.  She  saw  the  morn- 
ing  dawn  above  the  opposing  ranks  ;  she  heard  the  shouts  of 
the  commanders,  the  sharp  report  of  the  rifles,  and  the  deaf 
ening  roar  of  the  cannon,  and  she  saw  one  form  amid  the 
thousands,  and,  as  when  she  last  beheld  it,  she  saw  that  form 
alone;  she  marked  his  every  movement,  and  when  her  quick 
fancy  beheld  the  "  leaden  death"  flying  around  him,  her  breath 
was  checked  convulsively,  and  the  colour  went  and  came 
upon  her  cheek,  and  then,  with  the  swiftness  and  wayward 
ness  of  thought,  her  mind  returned  to  their  last  meeting,  their 
last  look ;  and  her  face  became  one  burning  flush  when  she 
thought  how  much,  how  all  too  much  that  look  had  betrayed. 
As  she  raised  her  head  from  the  counterpane  in  which  it  had 
been  buried,  her  eyes  again  rested  upon  the  features  of  Mela- 
nie,  and  still  more  deeply  did  she  blush  at  her  own  selfishness 
in  thinking  of  aught  beside  the  cherished  sufferer  and  the  duty 
she  owed  to  her  beloved  mother.  Where  was  that  mother 
now  ?  Why  was  not  sJie  too  bending  over  the  slumbers  of 
the  dying  one  ?  Oh  !  had  you  asked  her  bleeding  heart,  an 
answer  had  been  poured  forth  in  tones  of  the  bitterest  agony 
which  the  hand  of  sorrow  could  draw  forth  from  its  broken 
strings.  Grief — grief,  too  deep  for  utterance,  too  violent  for 
restraint,  had  driven  her  from  the  bedside  of  Melanie.  With 
a  burning  brain  and  throbbing  nerves,  she  had  stolen  unno 
ticed  from  the  side  of  Emily,  and  stepped  forth  upon  the  broad 
piazza,  to  breathe  for  one  moment  the  coolness  of  the  mid 
night  air ;  it  soothed,  it  refreshed  her,  and  throwing  herself 
upon  the  seat  beneath  Melanie's  window,  a  burst  of  tears  re- 


REMAINS.  181 

lieved  her  agitated  feeluags.  The  scene  was  solemn,  and  to 
the  reflecting  mind  it  was  one  of  deep  interest,  for  the  shade 
of  an  eventful  morrow  seemed  hanging  darkly  over  it ;  torches 
were  glancing  to  and  fro  in  the  distant  fort ;  boats  were  cross 
ing  and  recrossing  the  river ;  the  bridges  were  destroyed,  and 
the  voice  of  the  sentinel  was  heard  at  intervals,  as  he  loudly 
demanded  the  countersign  from  some  belated  traveller.  In 
addition  to  her  other  cares,  Mrs.  Mentreville  was  now  seri 
ously  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  her  husband  :  at  every  casual 
footstep,  at  every  shadow  which  obscured  the  moonlight,  she 
started  from  her  seat,  and  an  anxious,  "  is  it  he  ?"  trembled 
unconsciously  upon  her  lips.  In  the  silent  solemnity  of  that 
midnight  hour,  her  mind  reverted  to  her  own  early  days, 
when  loving  and  beloved,  she  had  first  entered  that  humble 
cottage  a  youthful  and  happy  wife,  and  when  after  the  lapse 
of  years  she  had  still  found  herself  an  adored  and  cherished 
mother,  the  centre  of  all  the  social  affections,  the  parent  tree 
which  shadowed,  nourished,  and  supported  the  fresh  young 
tendrils  that  twined  around  it ;  now  there  was  a  deep,  deep 
void  within  her  heart.  Death  had  breathed  upon  her  para 
dise  ;  he  had  laid  his  cold  hand  upon  those  delicate  vines ;  he 
had  torn  them  asunder ;  had  gathered  all  but  three  young 
blossoms  to  twine  around  and  wither  on  his  clay-cold  brow". 
Pier  affection  for  the  dead  was  now  transferred  with  tenfold 
ardour  to  the  living ;  the  buoyancy  of  youth  and  hope  were 
gone,  but  love,  a  mother's  love,  can  never  perish,  and  her 
spirit,  chastened  and  subdued  by  the  hand  of  affliction,  clung 
to  Melanie  as  to  some  guardian  angel,  some  being  of  superior 
mould,  who  seemed  unfitted  for  the  cares  and  buffettings  of 
life,  and  yet  foreboding  fancy  had  never  dared  to  whisper 
she  could  die  ;  and  now  the  dreadful  summons  had  arrived  ; 
she  saw  it  in  the  flushed  and  fevered  cheek,  the  throbbing 
pulse,  the  eye  of  piercing  brilliancy  ;  she  heard  it  in  the  low 
tremulous  accents  of  her  beloved  one, — they  mingled  all  the 


182  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

sweetness  of  heaven,  and  all  the  sadness  of  earth  ;  and  the 
memory  of  those  tones  stole  over  her  mind  like  a  soothing 
murmur,  as  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  the  tears 
stole  silently  between  them.  She  was  startled  from  her  revery 
by  a  sound  like  the  distant  trampling  of  horses'  feet ;  she 
turned — the  sound  came  nearer — "  It  is  he  !"  and  she  rushed 
down  the  steps  of  the  piazza,  and  with  her  hand  upon  the 
gate  leaned  anxiously  over  the  little  enclosure.  She  scarcely 
breathed.  It  was  a  horseman  riding  furiously  down  the  little 
hill  to  the  right,  and  as  he  passed  in  the  moonlight,  hope  could 
deceive  her  no  longer ;  it  was  not  he,  it  was  the  express  ;  he 
dashed  along  through  the  row  of  sentinels,  and  waving  his 
cap  in  the  air,  his  hoarse  voice  broke  painfully  upon  the 
silence  of  night. 

"  The  enemy  !  the  enemy  !"  he  shouted,  "  they  have  come 
on  by  forced  marches  ;  they  are  now  encamped  within  two 
miles ;  they  will  be  here  by  daybreak,"  and  he  dashed  on, 
arousing  the  sleeping  echoes,  till  the  trampling  of  his  horse's 
feet,  and  the  tones  of  his  stentorian  voice  were  alike  lost  in 
the  distance.  Mrs.  Mentreville  slowly  and  mechanically  re 
turned  to  the  piazza,  and  a  thousand  agonizing  thoughts 
swept  like  a  burning  torrent  through  her  brain.  The  British 
army  was  rapidly  approaching ;  the  conflict  would  probably 
take  place  at  daybreak ;  her  husband  had  gone  to  secure 
them  a  place  of  refuge,  but  he  returned  not ;  perhaps  he  was 
a  prisoner  in  the  British  camp,  and  she,  a  helpless  woman, 
with  one  young  and  timid  daughter,  and  one,  so  dear  a  one, 
just  dying,  was  left  alone  in  the  deserted  village,  exposed  to 
the  cruel  insults  of  the  British  soldiery,  should  they  conquer, 
and  to  all  the  terror  and  tumult  of  a  desperate  conflict  even 
should  they  fail.  Oh  !  that  was  a  night  of  agony,  and  never, 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  after  life,  did  one  thought,  one 
feeling  then  endured  fade  from  the  volume  of  her  memory. 
As  the  thoughts  of  danger  and  the  necessity  of  exertion  passed 


REMAINS.  183 

through  her  mind,  she^wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and 
whispered  within  herself,  "  This  weakness  will  not  do ;  I 
have  a  part  to  perform.  I  am  the  only  guardian  of  my  three 
dear  ones ;  we  cannot  fly,  and  if  the  British  conquer,  as  I 
fear  they  must,  I  will  appeal  for  protection  to  their  officers  ! 
they  have  wives  and  children. 


POETICAL    REMAINS. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

MOTHER  !  thou  bidd'st  me  touch  the  lyre, 
And  wake  its  sweetest  tones  for  thee ; 

To  kindle  fancy's  dying  fire, 
And  light  the  torch  of  poetry. 

Mother !  how  sweet  the  word,  how  pure, 
As  if  from  heaven  the  accents  came ; 

If  aught  can  rouse  the  dormant  soul, 
It  is  that  cherish'd,  honour'd  name. 

Deep  in  the  heart's  recess  it  dwells ; 

It  lives  with  being's  earliest  dawn ; 
With  reason's  light  expands  and  swells, 

And  dies  with  parting  life  alone. 

Mother !  'tis  childhood's  first  essay, 
Breathed  in  its  trembling  tones  of  love ; 

It  lights  the  heart,  through  life's  long  way, 
And  points  to  holier  worlds  above  ! 

It  is  a  name,  whose  mighty  spell 

Can  draw  the  chain'd  affections  forth, 

Cat  rouse  the  feelings  from  their  cell, 
And  give  each  purer  impulse  birth. 
13 


1 86  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then  will  I  wake  my  sleeping-  muse, 
And  strive  to  breathe  my  thoughts  in  song, 

Though  sweetest  strains  must  fail  to  speak 
The  heart's  affections,  deep  and  strong. 


PRIDE  AND  MODESTY. 

JUST  where  a  wild  and  rapid  stream 
RolFd  back  its  waves  in  seeming  pride, 

Flowers  of  each  softly  varying  hue 
Were  sweetly  blooming,  side  by  side. 

Shaded  by  many  a  bending  tree, 

Their  glowing  cups  with  dew-drops  fill'd, 

Nature's  fair  daughters  blushing  stood, 
And  all  their  fragrant  sweets  distill'd. 

Oh,  'twas  a  wild  and  lovely  spot, 
Which  well  might  seem  a  spirit's  home  ! 

A  lone  retreat,  a  noiseless  grot, 

Where  earth's  rude  blasts  could  never  come. 

Within  a  broad  and  open  glade, 

A  tulip  spread  its  gaudy  hue, 
While,  'neath  the  myrtle's  clustering  shade, 

A  sweetly-drooping  lily  grew. 

As  the  light  zephyrs  o'er  them  swept, 
And  heightened  many  a  rosy  glow, 

A  strange,  deep  murmur  round  them  crept, 
Like  distant  music,  wild  and  low. 

'Twas  the  gay  tulip's  fragrant  breath, 
Which  many  an  answering  echo  woke, 

As  to  her  lowly  neighbour,  thus, 
With  proud  and  haughty  mien,  she  spoke  : 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  187 

"  Away !  frail  trembling  flower !  nor  dare 

To  droop  beside  my  glittering  form  ! 
Behold  how  bright  my  garments  are, 

And  mark  each  sweetly  varying  charm  ! 

"  Then  hie  thee  to  some  lonely  nook, 

Nor  show  thy  pallid  features  here  ; 
Go,  murmur  to  some  babbling  brook, 

Where  like  thyself  each  scene  is  drear ! 

"  Hast  thou  assurance  thus  to  gaze 

On  one  who  nature's  self  beguiles  1 
Hence  !  haste  thee  hence  !  and  hide  that  face, 

Where  parent  nature  never  smiles." 

She  ceased — a  sad,  sweet  whisper  rose, 
Which  thrill'd  the  zephyr's  list'ning  ear  ; 

Soft  as  an  angel's  gentlest  tone, 
Too  heavenly  for  this  mortal  sphere. 

'Twas  the  pale  lily's  silvery  voice, 

Which  rose  in  low  and  thrilling  tone, 
Like  breath  of  wild  Eolian  lyre, 

Moved  by  the  wind-god's  tenderest  moan  : 

"  Great  queen  !"  the  lovely  gem  replied, 
"  I  view  thy  charms,  I  own  their  power, 

And  void  of  envy,  shame,  or  pride, 
Admire  thy  beauties  of  an  hour. 

"  Full  well  I  know  my  pallid  brow 

Can  never  match  the  hues  of  thine ; 
Nor  my  white  robes  the  colours  wear, 

Which  on  thy  dazzling  garments  shine. 

"  But  the  same  hand  hath  form'd  us  both  ; 

And  heaven-born  nature  smiled  as  sweet 
As  on  thy  form,  when  the  low  flower 

Was  peeping  from  its  green  retreat. 


188  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  Here  was  I  planted  !  let  me  here 
Still  live  in  purity  and  peace  ; 

The  lily's  eye  shall  never  weep 
To  gain  the  tulip's  gaudy  grace. 

"  But  oh,  forget  not,  'mid  the  pomp 
Of  earthly  kingdom,  pride,  and  joy, 

That  boasted  beauty  must  decay, 
And  withering  age  thy  pleasures  cloy. 

"  Receive  the  lily's  kind  advice, — 
Retire  from  scenes  of  public  life, 

And  pass  thy  days  in  solitude, 
Apart  from  vanity  and  strife." 

While  the  sweet  murmur  past  away, 
The  stately  rose  as  umpire  came  ; 

The  lily  shunn'd  her  proud  survey, 
The  lordly  tulip  bent  for  shame. 

In  accents  bland,  but  nobly  firm, 
The  queen-like  flow'ret  soon  replied, 

In  tones  which  charm'd  the  tender  flower, 
And  humbled  more  the  tulip's  pride. 

"  Come  hither,  pure  and  lovely  one, 
With  thee  no  garden  plant  can  vie  ; 

Not  e'en  the  tulip's  gaudy  hues 

Match  with  thy  stainless,  spotless  dye. 

"  Come  to  my  bosom,  emblem  fair 
Of  heavenly  virtue's  fairer  form ! 

Here  let  me  learn  each  modest  grace, 
While  here  I  hush  each  wild  alarm. 

"  Come  to  my  bosom  !  what  so  pure, 

So  lovely  as  a  modest  one, 
Who  flies  from  folly's  glittering  lure, 

And  shuns  the  brigkt  meridian  sun  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  189 

"  Let  the  proud  tulip  glitter  still, 

Robed  in  hej.  scarf  of  varying  hue  ; 
Alone  'neath  nature's  eye  we'll  rest, 

Cheer'd  by  her  smile,  and  nurtured  by  her  dew." 


VERSIFICATION  OF  THE  TWENTY-THIRD 
PSALM. 

MY  shepherd  is  the  faithful  Lord, 
I  shall  not  want,  I  trust  his  word ; 
He  lays  me  down  in  pastures  green, 
He  leads  me  by  the  lake  serene, 
Comforts  my  soul,  and  points  me  on 
To  pure  religion's  holy  shrine. 

I  wander  through  the  vale  of  death, 

Yet  he  supports  me  still ; 
He  will  receive  my  dying  breath 

If  I  perform  his  will. 

Even  in  the  presence  of  my  foes 
He  doth  a  meal  of  plenty  spread ; 

My  cup  with  blessings  overflows, 
With  oil  he  does  anoint  my  head. 

1831. 


TO  BROTHER  L . 

THE  vessel  lightly  skims  the  wave, 
And  bounds  across  the  waters  blue, 

Near  shores  where  trees  luxuriant  spread, 
And  roses  wildly  blooming  grew. 


190  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Yon  islands  see  !  so  fair  and  bright, 
Like  gems  upon  the  azure  sea ; 

The  waters  dance  like  forms  of  light, 
And  waft  my  brother  dear  from  me. 

1831. 


FOR  MAMMA. 

THE  rippling  stream  serenely  glides, 
And  rising  meets  the  swelling  tides ; 
The  fleeting  lights  of  heaven  around 
Shine  brightly  o'er  the  vast  profound. 

The  moon  hath  hid  her  silvery  face, 
So  mark'd  with  beauty  and  with  grace, 
Majestic  when  she  rides  on  high, 
A  gem  upon  the  azure  sky ! 

My  thoughts,  oh  Lord,  then  turn  to  thee, 
Of  what  thou  art  and  I  shall  be ; 
Thy  outstretch'd  wings  around  me  spread 
And  guard  with  lotfe  my  helpless  head. 


1831. 


TO  MAMMA. 

FAREWELL,  dear  mother,  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  wo, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 

May  the  almighty  Father  spread 
His  sheltering  wings  above  thy  head. 
It  is  not  long  that  we  must  part, 
Then  cheer  thy  downcast,  drooping  heart 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  191 

Remember,  oh  remember  me, 
Unceasing  is  my  love  for  thee  ! 
When  death  shall  sever  earthly  ties, 
When  thy  loved  form  all  senseless  lies, 

Oh  that  my  soul  with  thine  could  flee, 
And  roam  through  wide  eternity ; 
Could  tread  with  thee  the  courts  of  heaven, 
And  count  the  brilliant  stars  of  even. 

Farewell,  dear  mother,  for  a  while 
I  must  resign  thy  plaintive  smile  ; 
May  angels  watch  thy  couch  of  wo, 
And  joys  unceasing  round  thee  flow. 


1831. 


TO  A  FLOWER. 

THE  blighting  hand  of  winter 

Has  laid  thy  glories  low  ; 
Oh,  where  is  all  thy  beauty  T 

Where  is  thy  freshness  now  1 

Summer  has  pass'd  away, 

With  every  smiling  scene, 
And  nature  in  decay 

Assumes  a  mournful  mien. 

How  like  adversity's  rude  blast 

Upon  the  helpless  one, 
When  hope's  gay  visions  all  have  pass'd, 
*  And  to  oblivion  gone. 

Yet  winter  has  some  beauties  left, 
Which  cheer  my  heart  forlorn ; 

Nature  is  not  of  charms  bereft, 
Though  shrouded  by  the  storm. 


192  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

I  see  the  sparkling  snow ; 

I  view  the  mountain  tops ; 
I  mark  the  frozen  lake  below, 

Or  the  dark  rugged  rocks. 

How  truly  grand  the  scene  ! 

The  giant  trees  are  bare, 
No  fertile  meadows  intervene, 

No  hillocks  fresh  and  fair ; 

But  the  cloud-capp'd  mountains  rise, 
Crown'd  with  purest  whiteness, 

And  mingle  with  the  skies, 
That  shine  with  azure  brightness. 

And  solitude,  that  friend  so  dear 
To  each  reflecting  mind, 

Her  residence  has  chosen  here 
To  soothe  the  heart  refined. 

1831. 


STANZAS. 

ROLL  on,  roll  on,  bright  orb  of  day  ; 

Roll  on,  thou  beauteous  queen  of  even  ; 
Ye  stars,  that  ever  twinkling  play, 

And  sweetly  grace  the  azure  heaven, 

Roll  on,  until  thy  God's  command 

Shall  rend  the  sky  and  tear  the  earth ; 

Till  he  stretch  forth  his  mighty  hand 
To  check  the  voice  of  joyous  mirth.    , 

He  spread  the  heavens  as  a  scroll, 

He  made  the  sea,  he  form'd  the  world  ; 

The  heavens  again  shall  backward  roll, 
And  mountains  from  their  base  be  hurl'd. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  198 

He  form'd  the  lovely  verdant  green, 
And  aught  of  fair  that  e'er  has  been  ; 
These  beautiefc  all  shall  pass  away, 
And  in  one  shapeless  ruin  lay. 

But  God  in  his  glory,  the  God  of  the  sky, 
Will  continue  through  endless  eternity  ; 
For  ever  untainted,  all  holy  and  pure, 
His  love  and  his  mercy  shall  ever  endure. 

1831. 


ESSAY  ON  NATURE. 

How  just,  how  pure,  how  holy  is  the  great  Creator  of 
the  universe !  When  I  gaze  upon  all  the  wonders  of 
nature,  the  rippling  stream,  the  distant  mountain,  the 
rugged  rock,  or  the  gently  sloping  hill,  my  mind  turns 
to  the  first  Great  Cause  of  all ;  the  Author  of  this  min 
gled  beauty,  grandeur,  and  simplicity.  God  made  this 
beautiful  world  for  us,  that  we  might  be  happy,  and 
why  are  we  not  so  ?  Because  we  do  not  seek  real  hap 
piness.  We  are  striving  to  obtain  worldly  pleasure  ;  but 
what  is  that,  compared  with  the  happiness  of  a  child  of 
God  1  He  feels  and  knows  that  his  Saviour  is  ever  dear ; 
he  weeps  over  his  past  follies  with  a  sweet  consciousness 
that  they  are  all  forgiven ;  that  the  kind  Shepherd  has 
brought  back  his  lost  sheep  to  the  fold.  He  trusts  in  the 
goodness  of  his  Creator.  His  faith  is  firm  in  the  blessed 
Saviour  who  died  for  him  ;  he  has  charity  for  all,  love 
for  all.  Such  is  the  Christian  !  His  earthly  sorrows 
seem  light,  for  his  thoughts  are  continually  upon  his  just 
Preserver.  What  is  man,  frail,  feeble  man,  but  a  flower 


194  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

of  the  field,  that  fades  away  with  the  rude  blast  of  the 
autumnal  storm.  How  infinite  the  love  which  sustains 
him! 

Plattsburgh,  1832. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  NINE  YEARS  OF  AGE. 
HOME. 

YONDER  orb  of  dazzling  light 

Sinks  beneath  the  robe  of  night, 

And  the  moon,  so  sweetly  pale, 

Waits  to  lift  her  silver  veil. 

One  by  one  the  stars  appear, 

Glittering  in  the  heavenly  sphere, 

And  sparkling  in  their  bright  array, 

Welcome  in  the  close  of  day. 

But  home,  that  sacred,  pure  retreat, 

Where  dwells  my  heart  in  all  that's  sweet, 

And  my  own  stream,  where  oft  I've  stray'd, 

And  mark'd  the  beams  that  o'er  it  play'd, 

Is  far  away,  o'er  the  waters  blue, 

Far  from  my  fondly  straining  view. 

1832. 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  GOD. 

WITH  the  lightning  his  throne,  and  the  thunder  his  voice, 

He  rides  through  the  troubled  sky ; 
He  bids  all  his  angels  in  heaven  rejoice, 

And  thunders  his  wrath  from  on  high ! 
"On  the  wing  of  the  whirlwind  he  fearlessly  rides," 
O'er  the  heavens,  the  earth,  and  the  ocean  he  strides ; 
The  breath  of  his  nostrils  the  lightning's  flame, 
All  nature  re-echoes  his  powerful  name ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  195 


FROM  THE  FORTY-SECOND  PSALM. 

+ 

WHY  is  my  bosom  fill'd  with  fear, 
And  why  cast  down  my  troubled  soul  ? 

Is  not  thy  God,  thy  Saviour  near, 
And  will  he  not  thy  fate  control  1 

How  mighty  is  my  Saviour's  hand, 

How  powerful  his  word, 
And  how  can  I,  a  sinful  worm, 

Address  him  as  my  Lord  1 

Jehovah  sends  his  mighty  breath 

Across  the  placid  sea  ; 
The  foaming  waters  proudly  whirl, 

As  longing  to  be  free. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep  aloud, 
The  raging  billows  follow  thee ; 

Thou  send'st  the  roaring  waves  abroad, 
Which  rush  o'erwhelming  over  me. 

Yet  at  the  great  I  AM'S  command, 
For  me,  the  object  of  his  care, 

The  shouting  waters  silent  stand  ; 
He  still  shall  listen  to  my  prayer. 


1833. 


HYMN  OF  THE  FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

WELCOME,  oh  welcome,  god  of  day  ! 

Thy  presence  gives  us  peace  ! 
All  hail,  eternal,  glorious  king, 

Thy  light  shall  never  cease  ! 


MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Transcendent  Sun  !  oh  list  to  one 

Whose  heart  is  fill'd  with  love  ; 
Let  the  sweet  airs  lift  high  our  prayers 

To  thee  our  God  above. 

Pure  orb  of  light !  resplendent,  bright ; 

Oh,  who  may  cope  with  thee  1 
And  who  may  dare  to  view  thee  there, 

And  never  bend  the  knee  1 

Before  thy  ray  the  guilty  flee, 

And  dread  thy  cheerful  beam, 
Lest  thy  fierce  eye  their  crimes  descry, 

And  chill  hope's  trembling  gleam. 

To  thee  we  bow,  for  on  thy  brow 

Is  majesty  impressed, 
Glory  thy  shroud,  thy  throne  the  cloud, 

Which  circles  o'er  thy  breast. 

The  Washing  flower  will  own  thy  power ; 

It  blooms  alone  for  thee  ; 
And  though  so  frail,  oh  hear  my  wail, 

My  blessed  guardian  be ! 

When  the  first  ray  of  brilliant  day 

Illumes  the  hill,  the  plain, 
The  songsters  raise  a  hymn  of  praise, 

Oh,  listen  to  my  strain. 

When  thy  loved  form,  which  braves  the  storm, 

In  ocean  disappears, 
One  mournful  cry  ascends  on  high, 

The  night  is  spent  in  tears. 

But  lest  we  mourn  for  thy  return, 

And  pine  away  in  grief, 
The  orb  of  night  supplies  thy  light, 

And  gives  us  sweet  relief. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  197 


Then  on  my  head,  eternal !  shed 
Thy  warmejt,  purest  beam, 

And  to  my  heart  content  impart, 
With  gratitude  serene. 

Then,  when  at  last,  my  sorrows  past, 
With  thee  in  light  I'll  roam, 

And  by  thy  side  securely  ride, 
Thy  bosom  for  my  home. 

1833. 


ENIGMA. 

SOMETIMES  I  grace  the  maiden's  brow, 
And  lend  her  cheek  a  brighter  glow ; 
Or  grim  and  strong  secure  the  wall 
Of  many  a  castle  gate  from  all. 
The  palace  boasts  me  always  there, 
To  guard  the  walls  and  bless  the  fair  ; 
The  meanest  cot  I  ne'er  disdain, 
Yet  guard  the  portals  of  the  brain. — LOCK. 


TO  A  LITTLE  COUSIN  AT  CHRISTMAS. 

MY  dear  little  Georgie,  oh  did  you  but  know 

How  delighted  I'd  be  could  I  meet  with  you  now ; 

Oh  could  I  but  print  on  your  forehead  a  kiss, 

To  thy  Margaret  the*  moment  were  unalloy'd  bliss. 

Thy  flowers  and  acorns  I've  cherish'd  with  care, 

And  to  me  they  have  seem'd  more  than  lovely  and  fair ; 

For  thoughts  of  the  friends  I  have  left  far  behind, 

And  sweet  recollections  will  crowd  on  my  mind, 

As  I  gaze  on  the  tokens  presented  by  you, 

And  the  sweet  little  letter  you've  written  me  too ; 


198  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

I  fancy  I  see  thee  on  bright  Christmas  day, 
With  Kitty  and  mother  all  sportive  at  play, 
Admiring  the  bounty  St.  Nicholas  gave 
To  the  boy  who  was  worthy  his  counsels  so  grave. 
Oh  could  I  but  join  thee,  my  beautiful  boy, 
In  thy  holiday  pastimes  and  innocent  joy  ! 
Is  "  Aunty"  still  working  on  bonnets  and  capes, 
Or  examining  flowers  of  all  sizes  and  shapes  ] 
Does  Aikin's  Collection  still  lie  on  her  lap, 
While  her  fingers  are  plaiting  some  ruffle  or  cap  ] 
Is  thy  "  dear  little  mother"  still  lively  and  gay, 
Pleasing  and  pleased,  as  when  I  came  away  1 
And  Annie,  and  Kitty,  and  grandfather  too  ] — 
But  'tis  time,  my  dear  Georgie,  I  bade  you  adieu. 
Tell  uncle,  and  brother,  and  all  whom  I  love, 
My  letters  alone  my  affection  must  prove. 

1833. 


ON  READING  CHILDE  HAROLD. 

THE  rainbow's  bright  and  varying  hue, 
Mix'd  with  the  soft  celestial  blue, 
The  brightest,  fairest  stars  of  night, 
Which  shed  their  radiance  pure  and  bright, 
If  mingled  in  a  wreath,  would  be 
Too  poor  an  offering  for  thee. 

The  morning  sun  should  deck  thy  brow, 
Now  dazzling  bright,  and  softening  now ; 
But  night's  dark  veil  too  oft  doth  cloud 
The  brow  which  genius  should  enshroud, 
For  vice  has  set  her  impress  there, 
Mingled  with  virtues  pure  and  fair. 

1833. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  '    199 


INVOCATION. 

OH,  thou  almighty  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth ! 
From  whom  the  world  and  man  derive  their  birth, 
My  youthful  harp  with  sacred  love  inspire, 
And  fill  my  soul  with  wild  poetic  fire. 

And  oh,  thou  pure,  transcendent  muse  of  heaven, 
Descend  upon  an  airy  cloud  of  even, 
With  thy  bright  fingers  touch  the  trembling  chord, 
And  let  it  echo  to  my  Saviour,  Lord. 


1833. 


CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

HAIL  to  salvation's  brilliant  morn, 
Hail  to  the  dawn  of  joy  and  peace, 

When  God's  supreme,  almighty  power, 
Bade  all  our  pains  and  sorrows  cease. 

Ye  angels,  sing  your  sweetest  songs, 
And  strike  anew  each  golden  lyre ; 

Let  him  to  whom  the  praise  belongs 
The  sacred  strain  inspire. 

This  day  the  star  of  promise  shone 

Bright  in  yon  eastern  sky, 
It  bore  redemption  in  its  light, 

A  herald  from  on  high. 

It  led  a  wise  and  chosen  band, 
Who  writhed  beneath  the  rod 

Of  Herod's  proud  and  kingly  hand, 
To  seek  their  infant  God. 


200  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

From  his  high  throne  in  realms  of  bliss, 
Where  love  was  in  every  breast, 

From  his  glorious  home  he  came  to  this, 
And  in  his  descent  we  are  blest. 

For  man's  unconquerable  pride, 
That  we  salvation  might  obtain, 

This  blessed  Saviour  bled  and  died, — 
And  has  the  sacrifice  been  vain  1 

Oh  Jesus,  filPd  with  sacred  fire, 
May  I  devote  this  life  to  thee  ; 

May  love  my  youthful  heart  inspire, 
And  glow  to  all  eternity. 

1833. 


EVENING. 

'TWAS  evening,  and  the  sun's  last  ray 
Was  beaming  o'er  the  azure  sky ; 

Earth  bade  farewell  to  cheerful  day, 
Which  sinks  beneath  the  mountains  high. 

Those  cloud-tipp'd  mountains  soar'd  afar 

In  that  bright  heaven  of  blue, 
And  seem'd  to  reach  yon  eastern  star, 

Which  glittering  you  might  view. 

Between  its  banks  yon  rippling  stream 

Unruffled  glides  along, 
In  curling  eddies  onward  flew 

Rocks,  branches,  trees  among. 

Beyond  it  raged  the  troubled  sea, 

Which  threw  aloft  its  wave, 
And  ever  furious,  ever  dark, 

The  sky  it  seem'd  to  brave. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  201 

How  strangely,  sweetly  blended  there 

The  beautiful  and  grand, 
The  awful  with  the  prospect  fair, 

The  terrible  and  bland  ! 

Behold  that  tall,  majestic  reck, 

O'erhanging  yonder  stream ; 
See,  at  its  frowning  foot  is  seen 

The  pale  moon's  silvery  beam. 


1833. 


ENIGMA. 

IN  nature  it  holds  a  conspicuous  part, 
It  lives  in  the  ocean,  and  softens  the  heart ; 
The  supporter  of  angels,  in  heaven  it  dwells, 
And  the  number  of  demons  reluctantly  swells. 
'Tis  a  part  of  our  faith,  and  it  lives  with  the  dead, 
'Tis  devoid  of  religion,  yet  always  in  dread ; 
In  the  wavering  candle  all  brightly  it  glows, 
And  with  the  meandering  streamlet  it  flows. 
Without  it  the  name  of  the  warrior  were  lost, 
And  the  seaman  would  sink,  on  the  wide  ocean  tost. 
And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  guess  what  it  means, 
You  may  have  the  enigma  for  nought  but  your  pains. 


1833. 


TO  THE  DEITY. 

ALMIGHTY  GOD  !  Father  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Who  form'd,  from  'midst  the  vast  expanse  of  chaos, 
This  spacious  world, — omnipotent  and  holy  ! 
Before  thee  angels  bow  ! — the  countless  host 
Of  tjjpse  that  praise  thee,  and  that  hover  round 
14 


202  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Thy  sacred  throne,  shrink  from  the  blaze  of  light, 

And  shadow  with  their  wings  their  beaming  brows, 

Lest,  on  their  senses  thy  transcendent  glories 

Burst  with  a  stunning  power,  and  absorb  them 

In  one  full  flood  of  brilliance. 

Oh  thou  !  whose  everseeing  eye  can  pierce 

The  misty  shades  of  night,  and  penetrate 

The  deep  recesses  of  the  human  heart ; 

Parent  of  earth  !  how  glorious  are  thy  works  ! 

Look  at  yon  orb,  whose  ever-open  eye 

Sheds  at  his  glance  a  pure,  resplendent  light, 

Dispensing  good.     Night  throws  her  sable  veil 

O'er  hill  and  rock,  o'er  rivulet  and  ocean  : 

Then  chaste  Diana  sheds  her  silver  ray 

O'er  all :  her  throne,  the  fleecy  cloud  that  floats 

Over  the  vast  expanse  of  heaven  above  us ; 

Her  bright  attendants  are  the  brilliant  stars, 

That  seem  like  guardian  angels,  who  attend, 

In  virgin  purity,  to  keep  from  ill 

Our  ever-rolling  orb  :  beauty  reigns  over  all, 

And  tinges  nature  with  her  softest  touch. 

If  scenery  so  bright  as  this  be  here, 

Oh,  how  can  fancy  paint  the  joys  of  heaven, 

That  pure  and  holy  place,  region  of  bliss  ! 

There  glides  an  amber  stream,  diffusing  sweets, 

And  every  tiny  wave,  which  o'er  the  sands 

Of  purest  gold  rolls  backward,  washes  up 

Seme  pearl  or  diamond,  gem  of  dazzling  beauty  ; 

While  ambrosial  zephyrs  fan  the  air. 

See,  yonder  angel,  resting  on  the  cloud, 

His  beaming  eye  upturn'd  with  holy  awe. 

Oh  list !  he  chaunts  his  great  Creator's  praise  ; 

His  golden  harp  is  never  hush'd  by  wo  ; 

There  music  holds  her  sweet,  harmonious  reign. 

How  pure  the  being  who  calls  forth  that  lay : 

Such  clear,  melodious  symphony 

Might  well  awake  the  dead  from  their  last  sleep. 


1833. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  203 


TO  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

^ 

THOUGH  thy  freshness  and  beauty  are  laid  in  the  tomb, 

Like  the  flow'ret,  which  droops  in  its  verdure  and  bloom ; 

Though  the  halls  of  thy  childhood  now  mourn  thee  in  vain, 

And  thy  strains  will  ne'er  waken  their  echoes  again ; 

Still  o'er  the  fond  memory  they  silently  glide ; 

Still,  still,  thou  art  ours  and  America's  pride. 

Sing  on,  thou  pure  seraph,  with  harmony  crown'd, 

O'er  the  broad  arch  of  heaven  thy  notes  shall  resound, 

And  pour  the  full  tide  of  thy  music  along, 

While  a  bright  choir  of  angels  re-echoes  the  song. 

The  pure  elevation  which  beam'd  from  thine  eye, 

As  it  turn'd  to  its  home,  in  yon  fair  azure  sky, 

Told  of  something  unearthly, — it  shone  with  the  light 

Of  pure  inspiration  and  holy  delight. 

"  Round  the  rose  that  is  wither'd  a  fragrance  remains, 

O'er  beauty  in  ruins  the  mind  proudly  reigns." 

Thy  lyre  has  resounded  o'er  ocean's  broad  wave, 

And  the  tear  of  deep  anguish  been  shed  o'er  thy  grave, 

But  thy  spirit  has  mounted  to  regions  on  high, 

To  the  throne  of  its  God,  where  it  never  can  die. 


1833. 


WRITTEN  WHEN  BETWEEN  ELEVEN  AND  TWELVE. 


PROPHECY. 

FAIR  mortal,  I  linger  to  tell  thee  thy  fate, 
Like  an  angel  above  thy  bright  fortunes  I  wait : 
Thy  heart  is  a  mixture  of  tender  and  sweet, 
And  thy  bosom  is  virtue's  own  sacred  retreat. 
Simplicity  soft  and  affection  combine 
To  render  thee  lovely  and  almost  divine. 


204  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Devoid  of  ambition,  rest,  dear  one,  secure, 

For  with  thoughts  so  refined,  and  with  feelings  so  pure, 

What  mortal  would  injure,  what  care  would  pursue 

A  being  protected  by  heaven  like  you  1 

Bright  beauty  thou  hast  not,  but  something  so  fair 

It  may  serve  to  protect  thee  from  sorrow  and  care. 

I  pierce  the  light  veil  which  would  darken  thy  fate, 

And  angels  of  happiness  round  thee  await ; 

I  see  a  bright  cherub  supporting  thy  head, 

While  around  thee  the  smiles  of  affection  are  shed ; 

I  see  thy  aged  arms  around  him  prest, 

Thy  gray  locks  waving  o'er  his  youthful  breast — 

I  see  thee  on  his  tender  bosom  lay, 

In  silent  pleasure  breathe  thy  life  away. 

My  tale  is  told — dear  one,  I  linger  now 

To  kiss  with  fervent  love  thy  own  fair  brow. 

1833. 


ENIGMA. 

ON  the  brow  of  the  monarch  in  triumph  I  stand, 
I  govern  each  measure,  I  rule  each  command ; 
Without  me,  his  kingdom  to  atoms  would  fall, 
But  I  share  not  his  crown,  and  I  rule  not  his  hall. 
I  dance  in  the  meadow,  and  play  on  the  stream, 
And  I  glimmer  obscurely  in  Luna's  pale  beam. 

I  dwell  in  thy  bosom,  I'm  part  of  thy  form, 
But  I  ride  on  the  tempest,  and  guide  the  fierce  storm ; 
With  the  sea-nymph  I  rest  on  the  moss-covered  cliff, 
And  I  weep  with  the  mourner  that  life  is  so  brief. 
O'er  the  grave  of  the  mighty  in  sorrow  I  bow, 
And  I  rest  in  thy  mind  as  thou'rt  watching  me  now. 

Go  look  on  the  pillow  of  sorrow  and  care, 

On  the  brow  that  is  wither'd  by  darkest  despair, 

Stern  affliction  will  meet  you,  but  I  am  not  there. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  205 

In  the  heart  of  the  rich  man,  the  court  of  the  prince, 
In  the  mariner's  vessel,  the  warrior's  lance, 
In  the  tumult  of  war,  on  the  brow  of  the  fair, 
Though  millions  surround  them  still  I  am  not  there. 

In  the  home  of  the  noble,  the  virtuous,  the  great, 

In  thy  own  lovely  bosom,  rejoicing  I  wait. 

I  wish  I  might  dwell  in  that  beautiful  eye ; 

I  wish  I  might  float  in  yon  pure  azure  sky  ; 

I  would  lead  you  in  triumph  wherever  I  stray'd, 

Where  the  sunbeam  had  lit,  or  the  pale  moon  had  play'd. 

1834. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  SACRED  WRITINGS. 

THE  Bible  !  what  is  it  1 — every  heart  which  has  read 
and  justly  appreciated  that  inestimable  volume  cannot 
fail  to  exclaim,  "  This  is  the  work  of  a  God  !"  Who  is 
there  that  will  not  admire,  (although  he  read  with  a 
doubting  mind,)  its  force,  dignity,  beauty,  and  simplicity  ? 
Principles  so  pure,  precepts  so  sublime,  and  thoughts 
so  refined,  who  could  have  formed  them  but  one  in 
spired  by  a  God,  or  God  himself?  'Tis  our  guide,  our 
star  to  lead,  the  herald  to  usher  us  into  a  glorious  eter 
nity.  When  the  mind  is  overwhelmed  with  care,  what 
power  can  soothe  like  this  sacred  volume  1  Its  pages, 
beaming  with  truth  and  mercy,  will  shed  a  holy  light 
over  the  troubled  landscape,  and  impart  a  softer  swell  to 
the  billows  of  adversity.  It  is  the  lighthouse  by  whose 
beams  we  should  direct  our  path  over  the  gloomy  waves 
of  life.  Then  why  neglect  it  ?  Some  may  think  it  de 
rogatory  to  their  earthly  dignity — "  What  will  the  world 
say  T'  Read  it,  and  learn  from  its  sublime  precepts  lo 
stem  the  tide  of  worldly  opinion.  When  all  else  fails 


206  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

you,  this  will  remain  the  supporter  of  your  rights  ;  here 
is  real  dignity  and  grandeur,  but  it  is  the  dignity  of  the 
soul,  the  grandeur  of  virtue,  the  dignity  arising  from  a 
close  alliance  with  the  Deity.  If  He  who  thundered  on 
Mount  Sinai,  and  caused  the  silver  founts  to  flow  from 
rocks  of  adamant,  will  deign  to  approach  so  near  us,  is 
it  for  us  to  stand  aloof,  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  our 
own  insignificance,  and  brave  the  tempest  of  life  alone  ? 
Oh  !  how  depraved  that  heart  must  be,  which  such  con 
descension  will  fail  to  affect !  and  how  happy  the  bosom 
for  ever  confiding  in  its  God  !  calm  in  the  midst  of  afflic 
tion,  resigned  while  the  torrents  of  grief  pour  on  the  soul ; 
which,  though  borne  down  by  sorrow,  is  fortified  by  vir 
tue,  and  looks  calmly  and  steadily  forward  to  the  cala 
mities  which  it  is  certain  will  terminate  in  an  endless 
communion  with  its  Maker. 

February  2,  1834. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SODOM  AND  GOMORRAH. 

OH  tremble,  ye  proud  ones  !  oh  tremble  with  fear ! 

For  Jehovah  has  come  in  his  wrath  ; 
Stern  vengeance  is  throned  on  his  terrible  brow, 

And  lightning  attends  on  his  path. 
Oh  shrink  from  the  glance  of  his  soul-quenching  eye, 
As  he  treads  on  the  whirlwind,  and  comes  from  on  high  ! 

Oh,  burst  the  dark  shackles  of  sorrow  and  sin  ! 

Before  his  dread  presence  in  penitence  bow  ; 
Oh,  dash  the  bright  wine  cup  in  terror  away, 

And  dare  not  to  gaze  on  his  broad  flaming  brow, 
For  the  angel  of  mercy  no  longer  is  there, 
To  quiet  your  conscience,  or  soothe  your  despair. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  207 

The  spirit  of  death  o'er  your  city  has  pass'd, 
His  broad  flaming  _weapon  is  waving  on  high ; 

Your  sentence  is  heard  in  the  whirlwind's  rude  blast, 
'Tis  written  in  fear  on  yon  lightning-crown'd  sky. 

Oh,  powerless  your  arm,  and  unwielded  your  lance, 

As  he  cometh  with  vengeance  and  fire  on  his  glance. 

The  bride  at  the  altar,  the  prince  on  his  throne, 
The  warrior  secure  in  his  strongly-built  tower, 

For  the  soft  voice  of  music  hear  sorrow's  deep  moan, 
And  shrink  'neath  the  hand  of  their  God  in  his  power. 

The  smile  on  the  cheek  is  transform'd  to  a  tear, 

But  repentance  is  lost  in  bewailing  and  fear. 

Oh,  turn  to  your  God,  in  this  moment  of  dread, 
For  mercy  may  rest  'neath  the  frown  on  his  brow. 

Oh,  haste  e'er  each  fast-failing  hope  shall  have  fled, 
Oh,  haste  in  repentance  and  terror  to  bow. 

The  moment  of  grace  and  repentance  has  pass'd ; 

Your  entreaties  for  pardon  are  useless  and  vain ; 
The  sword  of  destruction  is  levell'd  at  last, 

And  Gomorrah  and  Sodom  are  ashes  again. 

1834. 


VERSIFICATION  FROM  OSSIAN. 

OH  thou,  who  rollest  far  above, 

Round  as  my  father's  shield  in  war ! 

From  whence  proceed  thy  beams,  oh  sun, 
Which  shine  for  ever  and  afar ! 

All  cold  and  pale,  the  feeble  moon 

Shrinks  back,  eclipsed  beneath  thy  power ; 

The  western  wave  conceals  its  light 
At  morning's  bright,  resplendent  hour. 


208  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  thou,  unchanging,  mov'st  alone  ! 

Oh  who  may  thy  companion  be  1 
The  rugged  rocks,  the  mountains  fall, 

But  who  may  stand  in  might  like  thee  1 

The  ocean  shrinks  and  grows  again, 
All  earthly  things  will  fade  away, 

But  thou  for  ever  art  the  same, 
Rejoicing  in  thy  brilliant  ray  ; 

Rolling  and  rolling  on  thy  way, 

Enlightening  worlds  from  day  to  day. 

When  o'er  yon  vault  the  thunders  peal, 
And  lightning  in  its  pathway  flies ; 

When  tempests  darken  o'er  the  world, 
And  cloud  the  once  resplendent  skies, 

Thou  rear'st  on  high  thy  noble  form, 

And  laughest  at  the  raging  storm. 

But  now  thou  look'st  to  me  in  vain, 
For  I  behold  thy  beams  no  more  ; 

I  languish  here  in  darkness  now, 
On  Erin's  green  and  fertile  shore. 

I  know  not  if  thy  yellow  hair 
Is  floating  on  the  western  clouds, 

Or  if  the  fleecy  veil  of  morn 

Thy  brilliant  beauty  lightly  shrouds; 

But  thou,  great  sun,  perhaps,  like  me, 

Shall  days  of  rest  and  silence  see. 

Amid  the  clouds  thy  form  may  sleep, 
Regardless  of  the  morning's  voice ; 

Exult  then,  mighty  orb  of  day, 
And  in  thy  vigorous  youth  rejoice* 

1834 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  209 

TO  MY  DEAR  MAMMA, 

•-  •••&''• 

ON  RETURNING  FROM  A  LONG  VISIT  TO  NEW  YORK. 

THOUGH  my  lyre  has  been  silent,  dear  mother,  so  long 
That  its  chords  are  now  broken,  and  loose,  and  unstrung1, 

If  'twill  call  but  one  smile  of  delight  to  thy  cheek, 
I  will  waken  the  notes  which  so  long  were  unsung. 

My  lyre  has  been  thrown  all  neglected  aside, 
And  other  enjoyments  I've  sought  for  a  while ; 

But  though  lured  by  their  brilliance,  still  none  can  compare 
With  my  dear  little  harp  and  my  mother's  sweet  smile. 

With  joy  I  return  to  my  books  and  my  pen, 

To  my  snug  little  home  and  its  inmates  so  dear, 

For  while  scribbling  each  thought  of  my  half-crazy  brain 
I  can  chase  every  sorrow  and  lull  every  fear. 

Oh  excuse  my  poor  harp  if  these  lines  do  not  rhyme, 
'Tis  so  long  since  it  warbled  aught  breathing  of  sense, 

That  the  chords,  though  I'm  striving  to  tune  them  aright, 
Still  warble  of  folly  and  pleasure  intense. 

1834. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  F.  H.  WEBB, 

IN  vain  I  strike  my  youthful  lyre, 

Some  gayer  music  to  impart, 
And  dissipate  the  gloom  which  hangs 

Too  sadly  round  my  mourning  heart. 

Oh,  I  would  wish  its  low,  deep  tones, 

Some  gentler,  sprightlier  strain  to  borrow ; 

But  still,  they  only  can  respond 

The  plaintive  voice  of  heartfelt  sorrow. 


210  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

For  she,  the  young,  the  bright,  the  gay, 

Has  left  us  here  to  weep, 
While  cover'd  with  her  parent  clay, 

And  wrapt  in  death's  long  sleep. 

But  memory  still  can  paint  the  scenes 

Of  past,  but  ne'er  forgotten  joy, 
When  we  have  sported  wild  arid  free, 

No  sorrow  pleasure's  tide  to  cloy. 

Thy  form,  as  it  was  wont  to  be, 

Still  mingles  with  each  thought  of  home  ; 

My  earliest  sports  were  join'd  by  thee, 
When  graced  by  beauty's  brightest  bloom. 

.  Again  I  view  that  hazel  eye, 

With  life  and  pleasure  beaming ; 
Again  I  view  that  fair,  white  brow, 
Those  dark  locks  o'er  it  streaming. 

Again  I  view  thy  blushing  cheek, 

The  glow  of  love  and  pride, 
When,  'mid  the  throng  of  smiling  friends, 

A  blooming,  happy  bride. 

But  more  than  these,  the  angel  mind 

Should  all  our  thoughts  engage  ; 
Oh,  'twas  unsullied  and  refined 

As  is  this  spotless  page. 

How  changed  the  scene  !  the  star  of  hope 
Has  set  in  clouds  of  darkest  night, 

And  she,  the  lovely  and  the  gay, 

Is  laid  in  the  grave  with  her  beauty  and  light. 

Oh,  where  shall  the  mother,  all  mourning  and  sad, 
Oh,  where  shall  she  look  for  the  child  she  adored  ! 

And  where  shall  the  husband,  half  frantic  with  grief, 
Find  the  wife  in  whose  bosom  his  sorrows  he  pour'd  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  211 

How  lonely  and  silent  each  well-beloved  scene, 
Each  garden,  each  grove,  which  she  loved  to  frequent ; 

The  sweet  flowers  dhe  nurtured  so  fondly  and  long, 
In  sorrow  their  heads  to  the  damp  ground  have  bent. 

But  a  flow'ret  more  lovely,  more  tender  and  pure, 
Is  languidly  drooping,  no  mother  to  guide  ; 

The  fond  kiss  of  a  mother  it  never  can  feel, 

And  to  her  the  warm  prayer  of  a  mother's  denied. 

But  the  spirit  we  mourn  has  ascended  on  high, 
And  there  it  will  watch  o'er  its  little  one's  fate  ; 

In  whispers  her  voice  will  be  heard  from  the  sky, 
With  a  mother's  affection,  which  ne'er  can  abate. 

1834. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

THOUGH  yon  broad  vault  of  heavenly  blue 
Is  spangled  o'er  with  gems  of  light ; 

Though  veil'd  beneath  its  azure  hue 
Is  glittering  many  a  star  so  bright ; 

Though  thousands  wait  around  the  throne 
Of  yon  cold  monarch,  proudly  fair ; 

Though  all  unite  their  dazzling  powers 
To  vie  with  Luna's  brilliance  there  ; 

Each  star  which  decks  her  cloud-veil'd  brow, 

Or  glitters  in  her  snowy  car, 
Would  shrink  beneath  thy  dazzling  ray, 

Sweet  little,  sparkling  evening  star  ! 

No  twinkling  groups  around  thee  throng, 
Thy  path  majestic,  lonely,  bright ! 

A  radiant  softness  shades  thy  form, 
First  wanderer  in  the  train  of  night ! 


212  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

While  gazing  on  thy  glorious  path, 
It  seems  as  though  some  seraph's  eye 

Look'd  with  angelic  sweetness  down, 
And  watch'd  me  from  the  glorious  sky. 

As  the  dim  twilight  steals  around, 
And  thou  art  trembling  far  above, 

I  think  of  those  no  longer  here, 
Dear  objects  of  my  earliest  love. 

And  the  soft  ray  which  beams  from  thee 
A  soothing  calmness  doth  impart; 

And  from  each  poignant  sorrow  free, 
A  sweet  composure  fills  my  heart. 

Oh !  then  shine  on  thus  pure  and  bright, 
Pour  on  each  mourning  soul  thy  balm ! 

Soothe  the  sad  bosom's  rankling  grief, 
And  fill  it  with  thy  heavenly  calm ! 

Till  meek,  submissive,  and  resign'd, 
It  seeks  above  a  purer  joy ; 

And  stays  the  fickle,  wayward  mind 
On  pleasures  which  can  never  cloy. 

1834. 


TO  MY  FATHER. 

OH,  how  I  love  my  father's  eye, 

So  tender  and  so  kind  ! 
Oh,  how  I  love  its  azure  dye, 

The  index  of  his  mind  ! 

Oh,  how  I  love  the  silver  hair 
Which  floats  around  his  brow. 

I  love  to  press  my  father's  form, 
And  feel  his  cheek's  warm  glow. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  213 

Oh,  what  is  like  a  parent's  love  1 

What  heart  like  his  will  feel, 
When  sorrow's  waves  are  raging  round, 

And  cares  the  thoughts  congeal  1 

Would  he  not  die  his  child  to  save  1 

Would  not  his  blood  be  shed 
That  yet  one  darling  might  remain 

To  soothe  his  dying  bed  ? 

Oh,  what  is  like  a  parent's  care 

To  guard  the  youthful  mind  1 
Oh,  what  is  like  a  parent's  prayer, 

Unbounded  grace  to  find  ] 

Ah,  yes  !  my  father  is  a  friend 

I  ever  must  revere, 
And,  if  I  could  but  cease  to  love, 

His  virtues  I  would  fear. 


1834. 


ON  NATURE. 

"  How  beautiful  is  Nature  !"     Every  soul, 

Beating  with  warm  and  gentle  feeling, 

Must  repeat  with  me  these  heartfelt  words, 

"  How  beautiful  is  Nature  !"     In  the  dark 

Awful  waving  of  the  sky-crown'd  forest, 

Her  gentle  whisper,  like  an  angel's  voice, 

Still  breaks  upon  the  stillness ; — in  the  stream 

Which  ripples  past,  is  heard  her  low,  sweet  murmur ; 

While  on  the  varied  sky,  the  frowning  mount, 

Her  chainless  hand  majestical  is  laid  ! 

What  voice  so  sweet  as  hers  1  what  touch  so  soft, 

So  delicate  1  what  pencilling  so  divine  ] 

Oh,  can  the  warmest  fancy  ever  picture 

To  the  rapt  soul,  a  scene  more  beautiful  1 


2)4  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Say,  can  imagination,  light  as  air, 
Capricious  as  each  varying  wind  which  blows, 
Create  a  model  of  more  perfect  loveliness, 
More  grace  and  symmetry  1  Can  thought  present 
A  tint  more  light,  and  yet  more  gorgeous, 
Hues  more  sweetly  mingled,  one  dim  shadow, 
Blending  in  grace  more  lovely  with  another  1 
Ah  no  !  but  'tis  the  sin  which  dwells  within 
That  casts  a  dark'ning  shade  o'er  Nature's  face — 
Nought  can  there  be  more  beauteous  and  divine ; 
But  to  the  eye  of  discontent  and  wo, 
Her  gentle  graces  seem  to  mix  with  sorrow ; 
And  to  the  chilling  glance  of  stern  despair, 
Her  sweetest  smile  is  but  a  threatening  cloud  : 
Just  as  the  mind  is  turn'd  she  smiles  or  frowns, 
And  to  each  eye  a  different  view  appears. 
The  cheerful,  happy  heart,  devoid  of  guilt, 
Like  a  white  tablet,  opens  to  receive 
Each  passing  hue,  and  as  the  colours  flit 
Over  its  surface,  it  becomes  more  tranquil, 
And  fit  to  take  once  more  the  forms  of  joy, 
Which  ever,  as  they  glide  so  sweetly  by, 
Tinge  the  fond  soul  with  happiness  serene. 
If  dark,  degrading  sin  had  never  cast 
Its  shade  of  gloom  o'er  Nature's  lovely  brow, 
This  world  had  been  an  earthly  paradise. 
An  all-presiding  God  has  deck'd  our  globe 
With  grace,  and  life,  and  light ;  each  object  glows 
With  heavenly  tints,  and  every  form 
Contains  some  hidden  beauty,  which  to  minds 
Unburden'd  with  a  consciousness  of  guilt 
Proclaims  the  power  of  Him  who  rules  o'er  all ! 
The  falling  snow-flake,  or  the  humming  bee, 
Small  though  they  seem,  may  still  contain  a  world 
Of  knowledge  and  of  skill,  which  human  wisdom, 
Mix'd  with  human  guilt,  can  never  fathom. 
The  smallest  item  in  this  wondrous  plan, 
Replete  with  grace,  and  harmony,  and  light, 
Would  form  employment  for  a  fleeting  life  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  215 

Oh,  'twere  a  home  for  angels  !  and  a  home 

No  angel  might  despise,  if  human  guilt 

Had  never  stain'd  it  "with  its  crimson  glow. 

Our  earth  was  once  an  Eden,  and  if  sin 

Had  never  tinged  with  blood  its  rippling  streams, 

And  ne'er  profaned  its  broad  luxuriant  fields 

With  scenes  of  wickedness,  and  thoughts  of  wo, 

Had  thus  remain'd  ;  each  heart  o'erflowing 

With  delight  and  love  ;  each  bosom  fill'd 

With  heavenly  joy.     How  awful  is  the  change  ! 

And  how  tremendous  the  effect  of  sin 

On  Nature  and  on  man  !     The  wayward  soul, 

Once  open'd  to  degrading  guilt,  is  deaden'd 

To  her  beauty  ;  and  all  the  glowing  charms 

Which  waken'd  it  to  love  and  happiness, 

Ere  thus  ensnared,  are  pass'd  unnoticed  now  ! 

Oh,  could  we  purify  our  souls  from  sin, 

Would  we  desire  a  brighter  heaven  than  this  1 

More  glorious,  more  sublime,  more  varied, 

Or  more  beauteous  1  The  softly  rippling  stream, 

The  rising  mountain,  and  the  leafy  wood, 

Combine  their  charms  to  grace  the  splendid  scene ! 

The  light-crown'd  firmament,  the  tinted  sky, 

And  all  the  sweetly  varying  graces 

Which  bedeck  the  queen-like  brow  of  Nature, 

Serve  but  to  show  the  power  of  Nature's  God, 

The  mighty  Lord  of  this  immense  creation  ! 

The  heavenly  Maker  of  our  lovely  world. 

1834. 


TO  THE  INFIDEL. 

BEHOLD,  thou  daring  sinner !  canst  thou  say, 
As  rolls  the  sun  along  its  trackless  course, 

A  God  has  never  form'd  that  orb  of  day, 

Of  life,  and  light,  and  happiness  the  source  ? 


216  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Who  made  yon  dark  blue  ocean?     Who 
The  roaring  billow  and  the  curling  wave, 

Dashing  and  foaming  o'er  its  coral  bed, 
Of  many  a  hardy  mariner  the  grave  1 

Who  made  yon  dazzling  firmament  of  blue, 
So  calm,  so  beautiful,  so  brightly  clear, 

Deck'd  with  its  stars  and  clouds  of  fleecy  white, 
Like  the  bright  entrance  to  another  sphere  1 

Who  made  the  drooping  flow'ret  ?     Who 
The  snowy  lily  and  the  blushing  rose — 

Emblem  of  love,  which  sheds  its  fragrance  round, 
As  with  the  tints  of  heaven  it  brightly  glows  1 

Who  raised  the  frowning  rock  !     Who  made 
The  moss  and  turf  around  its  base  to  grow  1 

Who  made  the  lofty  mountains,  and  the  streams 
Which  at  their  feet  in  rippling  currents  flow  3 

Say,  was  it  not  a  God  1  and  does  not  all 

Bear  the  strong  "  impress  of  his  mighty  hand  ]" 

Oh  yes — his  stamp  is  fix'd  on  all  around — 
All  sprang  to  being  at  our  Lord's  command. 

Oh  ask  the  rnind  ! — oh  ask  the  immortal  mind, 
And  this  will  be  stern  reason's  firm  reply — 

'Twill  echo  o'er  old  ocean's  swelling  tide  : 
The  hand  that  form'd  us  was  a  Deity! 

1834. 


ON  THE  MIND. 

How  great,  how  wonderful  the  human  mind, 
Which,  in  each  secret  fold,  conceals  some  dread, 
Mysterious  truth  ;  which  spurns  the  fetters 
Binding  it  to  earth,  yet  draws  them  closer 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  217 

Round  it ;  which,  yearning  for  a  world  more  pure, 
And  more  congenial  with  its  heavenly  thoughts, 
Confines  its  soaring  spirit  to  the  region 
Of  death  and  sin  !     But  oh,  how  glorious 
The  sublime  idea,  that  though  this  frame, 
Corrupt  and  mortal,  mingle  with  the  dust, 
There  is  a  spark  within,  which,  while  on  earth, 
Gives  to  the  clay  its  energy  and  life, 
And  when  that  clay  returneth  to  the  dust 
From  whence  it  came,  may  rise  triumphant 
From  the  senseless  clod,  and  soaring,  mount  on  high, 
To  dwell  with  beings  holy  and  divine ; 
And  there,  within  its  ever-growing  ken, 
Clasp  the  great  universe ;  with  angels  there 
To  expand  those  heaven-born  powers,  which  here 
Were  fetter'd  with  the  earthly  chains  that  bind 
Misguided  man— pride,  sorrow,  discontent, 
And  cold  ambition,  foolish  and  perverted — 
But  destined  there  to  burn  in  all  its  light, 
And  urge  the  enfranchised  on  to  seek 
Glories  still  undiscover'd,  wonders 
As  yet  unknown.     And  can  it  be )     Does  this 
Weak,  trembling  frame  conceal  within  itself 
A  soul  ethereal  and  immortal  1 
A  glorious  spark,  sublime  and  boundless, 
"  Struck  from  the  burning  essence  of  its  God," 
The  great  I  AM,  the  dread  Eternal  ? 
Oh  how  tremendous  is  the  awful  thought ! 
The  soul  shrinks  back  alarm'd,  too  weak  to  gaze 
On  its  own  greatness,  or  rather,  on  the  greatness 
Of  that  God  who  made  it !     Yes !  'tis  his  work  ! 
The  moulding  of  his  mighty  hand  !     How  dread, 
How  peerless,  how  incomparably  great 
The  Governor  and  Former  of  this  vast  machine  ! 
Who  watches  from  on  high  its  slightest  thought, 
And  omnipresent  and  unbounded,  sways 
Each  feeling  and  each  impulse  !  and  whose  touch, 
However  slight,  may  turn  its  passions  from 
Their  common  channel,  and  whose  breath  can  tune 
15 


218  MISS  MARGARET  DAVID30X. 

Aright  those  delicate  and  hidden  fibres, 

Which,  rudely  touch'd,  would  yield  their  finest  chords, 

And  thus  destroy  the  harmony  of  all, 

Leaving-  a  blank  and  darken'd  chaos 

Where  once  was  harmony  and  joy  ! 

Oh  ye  that  seek  to  guide  perverse  mankind, 

Tamper  not  lightly  with  the  human  mind  ; 

Bat  when  an  erring  friend  from  virtue  strays, 

Gently  reprove,  and  do  not  seek  to  guide 

Those  hidden  springs  which  God  alone  can  fathom. 

Oh  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  see  the  rnind, 

Derived  from  such  a  pure  and  holy  source, 

Debased  by  sin,  by  dark,  offensive  crime, 

And  render'd  equal  with  the  beasts  that  roam ! 

To  see  the  wreck  of  all  that  once  was  good, 

The  shrinking  remnant  of  a  noble  soul, 

Like  the  proud  ship,  which  for  a  while  may  stem 

The  roaring  ocean,  but  o'ercome  by  storms, 

With  half  its  voyage  done,  is  torn  apart — 

The  sails,  the  stately  masts,  and,  last  of  all, 

The  guiding  helm — until  the  shatter' d  hulk 

Lies  undefended  from  the  sweeping  blasts, 

Threaten'd  by  frowning  rocks ; — but  as  some 

Friendly  hand  may  snatch  from  death's  embrace 

The  shuddering  crew,  so  may  a  Saviour's  love 

Redeem  from  endless  wo  the  trembling  sinner, 

And  lead  his  shrinking  spirit  up  to  heaven  ! 

The  mighty  God  who  saw  him  err,  can  change, 

Within  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  his  wayward  heart, 

And  give  to  his  apostate  soul  those  pure 

And  blessed  dreams  of  heaven, 

Those  1  opes  of  immortality,  which  soothe 

The  dying  Christian ;  and  when  his  spirit 

Ascends  to  dwell  with  Him  it  once  despised, 

Through  the  bright  merits  of  our  heavenly  Lord, 

It  there  may  join  in  love  and  hope  with  all 

The  angel  band,  in  singing  praises 

To  their  glorious  King,  the  great  Jehovah  ! 

Oh  that  we  too  might  cherish  every  virtue, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  219 


Prepare  our  minds  for  immortality, 
Where  undisturb'd  they  may  expand, 
And  reach  perfection* in  a  future  world. 

1834. 


ON  THE  HOPE  OF  MY  BROTHER'S  RETURN. 

WHY  rejoices  my  heart  at  the  passage  of  time, 
As  it  sweeps  on  the  wind  o'er  the  fast-rolling  year, 

And  bounds  as  the  sun  to  his  broad  couch  declines, 
His  bed  in  the  ocean,  majestic  and  clear1? 

I  pause  not  to  question  if  wise  it  may  be, 

But  faster  I'll  hurry  old  Time  on  his  way ; 
And  while  hours  unnumber'd  shall  rapidly  flee, 

I'll  laugh  as  they  fade  from  the  fast-closing  day. 

When  the  icy-cold  spell  of  stern  winter  shall  break, 

And  the  snow  shall  dissolve  like  the  dew-drops  of  morn ; 

When  spring  from  his  death-like  embraces  shall  wake, 
And  verdure  and  brilliance  her  brow  shall  adorn ; 

To  my  fancy  the  woodlands  more  sweetly  will  smile, 
The  streamlets  unshackled  more  tranquilly  glide ; 

More  softly  shall  nature  each  sorrow  beguile, 

And  disperse  every  thought  which  with  grief  may  be  dyed. 

I  will  watch  the  bright  flowers  with  their  delicate  bloom, 

Aroused,  as  by  magic,  from  winter's  cold  tomb, 

For  my  heart  will  be  gladden'd  as  near  and  more  near 

The  period  approaches  when  he  \vill  be  here. 

Oh  June  !  how  resplendent  thy  flowers  shall  appear, 

The  loveliest,  the  sweetest  which  bloom  in  the  year ! 

For  with  me  a  fond  brother  your  grace  shall  admire, 

And  each  word  from  his  lips  shall  new  rapture  inspire. 

But  these  dreams,  though  enchanting,  may  prove  to  be  vain, 

He  never  may  visit  the  loved  scene  again ; 


220  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

On  his  home  the  dread  weight  of  affliction  may  rest, 
And  the  cold  hand  of  sorrow  may  chill  the  warm  breast ; 
Or  death  from  its  bosom  some  dear  one  may  sever, 
And  stop  the  warm  current  of  life-blood  for  ever. 
But  love  will  illumine  the  future  with  light, 
And  tinge  every  cloud  with  a  colour  as  bright 
As  hope  in  her  own  sanguine  bosom  has  planted, 
Or  fancy  with  all  her  illusions  has  granted. 

1834. 


TO  MY  MOTHER. 

THE  spring  of  life  is  opening 

Upon  my  youthful  mind, 
And  every  day  the  more  I  see, 

The  more  there  is  to  find. 

The  path  of  life  is  beautiful 
When  sprinkled  o'er  with  flowers, 

And  I  ne'er  felt  affliction's  touch, 
Or  watch'd  the  weary  hours. 

To  guard  my  youthful  couch  from  wo, 

An  angel  hovers  near, 
Watches  my  bosom's  every  throe, 

And  wipes  each  childish  tear. 

It  is  my  mother — and  with  her 
Through  life  I'd  sweetly  glide, 

And  when  my  pilgrimage  is  o'er 
I'd  moulder  at  her  side. 

To  her  I  dedicate  my  lay, 
'Tis  she  inspires  my  song  ; 

Oh  that  it  might  those  charms  possess, 
Which  to  the  muse  belong. 


1834. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  221 


BOABDIL  EL  CHICO'S  FAREWELL  TO  GRANADA. 

THE  youthful  lyre  would  shrink  from  tales  of  wo, 

Would  tune  with  hope  and  love  each  quivering  string ; 
But  when  truth  bids  the  sorrowing  numbers  flow, 

Its  mournful  chords  responsive  notes  must  ring. 
'Tis  sweet  to  tell  of  laughing  mirth  and  glee ; 

Its  chords  would  vibrate  but  to  purest  joy ; 
And  when  deep  anguish  pours  unmix'd  and  free, 

Would  haste  with  hope  the  sinking  heart  to  buoy. 

But  faithful  history  still  the  page  unfolds 

Of  war  and  blood  ;  of  carnage  fierce  and  dark  ; 
Of  savage  bosoms,  cast  in  giant  mould, 

And  hearts  unwarm'd  by  pity's  gentle  spark. 
Then  cast  your  garb  of  merry  music  by, 

Assume  the  mantle  of  unbrighten'd  wo ; — 
A  cloud  is  gathering  o'er  the  peaceful  sky, 

And  the  warm  sunbeams  hide  their  golden  glow. 

Robed  in  a  mantle  of  unrivall'd  light, 

The  glorious  sun  was  sinking  o'er  the  plain, 
And  tinging,  with  a  glow  of  radiance  bright, 

The  towering  domes  and  palaces  of  Spain. 
Between  the  lofty  mounts  which  rise  around, 

And  form  the  deep  ravine  or  shady  dell, 
Granada's  towers  in  mighty  grandeur  stood, 

And  on  the  plain  their  darkening  shadows  fell. 

The  beams  were  gilding  all  her  lofty  towers, 

As  on  Nevada's  side  Alhambra  stood, 
And  o'er  her  spacious  halls,  her  laurel  bowers, 

Her  marble  courts,  they  pour'd  a  dazzling  flood. 
Her  gothic  arches  glitter'd  in  the  ray, 

While  many  a  gushing  fountain  cool'd  the  air, 
And  o'er  the  blushing  flowers  diffused  their  spray, 

Which  bloom  perennial  in  a  world  of  care. 


222  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  golden  lute  upon  the  grape-vine  hung, 

O'er  sparkling  waves  the  fragrant  orange  rose, 
And  o'er  the  gilded  roofs  the  sunbeams  flung 

A  dazzling  light,  as  when  the  diamond  glows. 
And  can  it  be  ! — can  scenes  so  fair  as  this 
Know  aught  but  joy  unclouded,  purest  bliss  1 
Will  heaven's  bright  orb  its  dazzling  brilliance  shed, 
As  if  in  mockery,  upon  sorrow's  head  ? 

Will  skies  of  azure  pour  their  softest  light 
On  hearts  which  grief  has  sear'd,  and  wo  doth  blight? 
Will  earth  rejoice,  while  earthly  hearts  are  riven, — 
While  man,  oppress'd,  to  dark  despair  is  driven  1 
Retire,  oh  sun  !  reserve  thy  cheering  rays 
For  calmer  hours,  for  brighter,  happier  days  ! 
Go,  shine  on  England's  spires  or  India's  bowers, 
But  gaze  not  on  Alhambra's  humbled  towers  ! 

Cease,  cease  thy  soft  meanderings,  sparkling  river  ! 
Wind  sadly  silent,  gentle  Guadalquiver  ! 
No  more  thy  waves  through  Moorish  woodlands  glance, 
No  more  reflect  the  Moorish  warrior's  lance, 
Nor  view  the  tournament  and  sprightly  dance. 
Cease,  for  thy  foam  is  red  with  Moslem  blood  ! 
Cease,  for  thy  lords  lie  cold  beneath  thy  flood  ! 
Captive  Boabdil  leaves  his  rightful  throne, 
To  others  yields  a  kingdom  once  his  own. 

Behold  yon  gate  !'  the  ancient  sages  say 

No  stone  shall  loosen,  till  that  awful  day, 

When  yonder  guardian  hand,  now  firmly  clasp'd, 

The  mystic  key  beneath  its  arch  has  grasp'd  ; 

At  that  dread  hour,  each  crumbling  stone  shall  fall, 

And  in  one  common  ruin  bury  all ; 

But  not  till  then,  though  first  Alhambra  lie 

A  shapeless  ruin,  'neath  a  frowning  sky. 

Why  should  she  last?  the  monument  of  shame, 
Her  legends  disbelieved,  degraded  every  name  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  223 

Her  noblest  chiefs  reduced  to  toil, 

Her  maidens  left,  the  conqueror's  spoil ! 
Murder'd  her  children, -ecorn'd  each  lovely  dame. 

Oh,  that  the  mystic  hand  had  power 
To  veil  Granada's  shame ; 

That  in  one  dark  and  awful  hour, 
Might  perish  each  dishonour'd  name. 

Lo  !  on  yon  mount  appears  a  mournful  train  ! 
Behold  the  newly-conquer'd  slave  of  Spain  ! 
El  Chico,  humbled,  winds  his  sorrowing  way, 
For,  with  his  home,  he  leaves  the  light  of  day. 
Ill-fated  prince  !  thine  errors  still  I  mourn  ; 

A  father's  hatred  caused  each  bursting  sigh  ; 
Thy  youthful  days  were  lonely  and  forlorn, 

Condemn'd  a  father's  cruelty  to  fly. 

Thy  heart  was  never  form'd  for  kingly  state ; 

It  teemed  with  softest  feeling,  gentlest  thought ! 
Devoid  of  strength  to  battle  with  thy  fate, 

For  peace  in  vain  thy  troubled  bosom  sought ! 
Though  the  brave  may  not  tremble,  when  war  shall  surround 

them, 

Or  shrink  when  the  mantle  of  death  shall  have  bound  them, 
Yet  the  eye  which  can  gaze  unconcern'd  on  the  tomb, 
Which  can  look  without  shrinking  on  death  in  its  gloom, 
Will  dissolve  like  the  dew,  or  some  wizard's  dark  spell, 
When  it  bids  the  sweet  home  of  its  childhood  farewelL 

The  exiled  monarch  slowly  turn'd  away  ; 

He  could  not  bear  to  view  those  towers  again, 
Which  proudly  glitter' d  in  the  sun's  last  ray, 

As  if  to  mock  their  wretched  master's  pain. 
His  weeping  bride  press'd  trembling  near  his  form, 

While  sobs  convulsive  heaved  her  snowy  breast ; 
But  proud  Ayxa  bade  their  sorrows  cease, 

With  scornful  glances  which  she  scarce  represt. 


224  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  Chide  me  not,  mother,"  cried  the  mourning  son, 

"  Nor  charge  me  with  unmanly  weakness  now  ; 
I  grieve  that  Spain  the  royal  prize  has  won, 

That  proud  Granada  to  her  kings  should  bow." 
He  paused,  and  turn'd  aside  his  glowing  cheek ; 

His  wandering  eyes  Alhambra's  palace  met : 
Those  splendid  domes,  those  towers  for  ever  lost, 

Lost,  when  the  sun  of  Moorish  glory  set. 

"  Yes  !  yonder  towering  spires  are  seized  by  Spain, 

Their  king  an  exile  from  his  native  land  ; 
Shall  I  ne'er  view  thy  princely  courts  again, 

But  yield  resistless  to  the  victor's  brand. 
Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  thine  ancient  splendours  fled ; 

O'er  thy  gay  towers  the  shroud  of  slavery  thrown ; 
Thy  proudest  chiefs,  thy  noblest  warriors  dead, 

And  all  thy  pride  and  all  thy  glory  gone. 

"  Farewell  to  Alhambra,  dear  home  of  my  childhood  ! 

Farewell  to  the  land  I  so  proudly  have  cherish'd  ; 
Farewell  to  the  streamlet,  the  glen,  and  the  wild-wood, 

The  throne  of  my  fathers  whose  glory  has  perish'd  ! 
'Neath  the  crest  of  Nevada  the  bright  sun  is  setting, 

And  tinging  with  gold  yonder  beautiful  river, 
And  his  rays  seem  to  linger,  as  if  half-regretting 

They  must  leave  the  clear  waves  where  so  sweetly  they 
quiver. 

"  Farewell,  thou  bright  valley  !  I  leave  thee  with  sorrow  ; 
Thou  wilt  smile  as  serene  'neath  the  sun  of  the  morrow; 
But  thine  ill-fated  monarch  shall  view  thee  no  more, 
He  ne'er  shall  revisit  thy  beautiful  shore." 
He  paused,  and  the  accents  of  heart-rending  grief 
Were  borne  by  the  wind  past  each  murmuring  leaf. 

"  Cease,  cease  these  vain  wailings  !"  Ayxa  replied, 
"  Nor  languish  and  weep  like  thy  timid  young  bride ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  225 

Why  mourn  like  a  maid,  who  in  sorrow  will  bend,a 

For  what  as  a  man  thou  couldst  never  defend  1 

Then  cease  these  vain  wailings,  which  womanlike  pour, 

Or  Ayxa  la  Horra  will  own  thee  no  more  ; 

Granada  has  fallen,  her  glory  has  fled, 

Her  warriors  and  chieftains  now  sleep  with  the  dead ; 

But  who  has  surrender'd  her  walls  to  our  foe, 

And  branded  her  honour  with  shame's  crimson  glow  1" 

The  tear  to  his  eyelid  unconsciously  sprung, 
But  back  the  intruder  he  eagerly  flung, 
And  cried,  in  a  tone  which  with  frenzy  might  blend, 
"  Defamed  by  my  country,  and  scorn'd  by  my  friend  !" 
They  slowly  ascended  a  rock  towering  high, 
Which  long  shall  re-echo  BoabdiPs  last  sigh  ;3 
No  prospect  of  beauty  his  mourning  heart  cheers, 
And  he  murmurs  farewell  on  the  dark  hill  of  tears.4 

Though  grief  and  remorse  with  their  terrors  oppress'd  him  ; 
Though  peace  and  affection  ne'er  tranquilly  blest  him  ; 
Though  his  kingdom  was  captured,  his  warriors  were  dying, 
Himself  from  the  fury  of  Ferdinand  flying  ; 
Through  the  tumult  of  feeling  his  pride  had  sustain'd  him, 
Had  his  griefs  but  a  mother's  fond  sympathy  gain'd  him ; 
But  the  pride  of  a  princess  affection  o'ercame, 
And  with  basest  dishonour  she  branded  his  name. 

Reproachful  invectives  unthinking  she  shower'd, 

"  His  country  was  fallen,  its  monarch  a  coward  I" 

The  proud  Ayxa  loved  her  yielding  son, 

And  would  have  died  had  death  his  glory  won  ; 

But  she  had  hoped  his  rising  fame  to  see, 

Had  long'd  to  view  his  vanquish'd  foemen  flee : 

This  cherish'd  object  of  each  glowing  thought 

Stern  disappointment  now  had  torn  away, 
And  left  a  gaping  wound,  with  frenzy  fraught ; 

For  hope  and  fancy  pour'd  no  cheering  ray. 


220  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  mother  was  forgot  in  stately  pride, 

While  bitter  anguish  drew  the  trembling1  tear ; 

He  claim'd  her  pity — she  could  only  chide, 
And  laugh  to  scorn  his  cowardice  and  fear. 

But  the  fair  Zorahayda,  his  beautiful  bride, 
To  soothe  his  affliction,  remain'd  at  his  side ; 
Each  thought  found  an  answering  chord  in  her  bosom, 
Which  glow'd  with  affection's  first  beautiful  blossom  : 
'Twas  warm  as  the  sunbeam,  and  bright  as  its  glance ; 
'Twas  clear  as  the  ripples  which  fairy-like  dance  ; 
Each  thought  and  each  feeling  which  dwelt  in  her  soul 
Her  eye  and  her  countenance  told  him  the  whole. 

Yes,  she,  the  young,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
To  sorrow's  drear  abode  love  call'd  away  ! 
From  her  dark  eye  she  wiped  the  starting  tear, 
And  by  his  side  repress'd  each  rising  fear ; 
Though  dark  despair  should  dim  each  future  day, 
And  even  hope  refuse  her  cheering  ray, 
Her  fairy  form  would  bless  his  wandering  eyes, 
Like  some  pure  spirit  from  the  glowing  skies. 

Reposing  'mid  Alhambra's  shady  bowers, 
She  cheer'd  his  lonely  and  his  weary  hours ; 
But  when,  alas !  his  brow  no  longer  wore 
The  crown  which  proudly  graced  his  front  before, 
When  fickle  Moors  forsook  his  tottering  throne, 
When  glory,  power,  and  kingly  state  were  gone, 
And  threatening  clouds  were  seen  around  to  lower, 
Then,  then,  he  felt  the  more  her  witching  power. 

Vanquish'd  at  last  upon  the  battle  field, 
And  forced  Granada's  lofty  towers  to  yield, 
Still  the  fair  bud  of  promise  brightly  glow'd, 
From  her  heart's  depths  the  warm  affections  flow'd  ; 
She  sweetly  soothed  his  cares,  she  blest  his  name, 
And  sorrow  fann'd  to  light  the  kindling  flame, 
Which  burn'd  within  that  tender,  faithful  mind, 
To  all  his  faults,  and  all  his  errors  blind. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  227 

How  sweet  the  communion  of  kindred  minds, 

When  sorrow  each  hope  hath  blighted ; 
When  the  heart  whieh  is  bursting  with  agony  finds 

One  face  with  pure  sympathy  lighted. 
And  must  he  from  the  fair  Zorahayda  be  banish'd, 

Must  the  charm  of  existence  for  ever  be  broken  1 
Has  every  fond  dream  of  prosperity  vanished, 

Must  he  sigh  over  love's  wither'd  token  1 

In  the  tower  of  Gomares  he  gather'd  a  few, 

And  his  warriors  still  faithful,  he  rallied, 
The  broad  Moorish  banner  far  over  them  flew, 

And  forth  to  the  battle  he  sallied. 
He  return'd — and  his  eye  was  cast  down  in  despair, 

The  glow  on  his  cheek  was  still  deeper ; 
"  Farewell  to  Granada  !  our  foemen  are  there  !" 

Loudly  echoes  the  voice  of  the  weeper. 

"  Come,  wife  of  my  bosom  !  together  we'll  wander, 

The  storms  of  affliction  together  we'll  brave ; 
And  perchance  in  some  distant  and  desolate  region, 

We  may  find  a  lone  shelter,  a  home,  and  a  grave. 
I  would  not  my  spirit  should  quit  its  sad  mansion 

'Mid  the  taunts  and  revilings  of  conquering  Spain, 
Where  the  foot  of  the  victor  would  tread  o'er  my  ashes, 

And  reproach  and  dishonour  would  tarnish  my  name. 

"  Oh,  gaze  on  yon  parapets  towering  on  high, 

Those  pillars  of  pride  were  but  yesterday  mine ; 
But  to-day  we  are  doom'd  from  their  splendours  to  fly — 

Weep  not  for  my  sorrows,  I  mourn  but  for  thine  ; 
Those  halls  shall  re-echo  the  loud  voice  of  grief, 

Those  fountains  in  murmurs  respond  to  our  sorrow, 
But  ne'er  can  they  waken  the  bright  smile  again, 

Which  wo  from  gay  pleasure  a  moment  would  borrow. 

"  Around  those  gay  mansions  and  beautiful  bowers 
The  foot  of  the  stranger  contemptuous  shall  press  ; 


22S  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Unmark'd  the  bright  fountains,  uncultured  the  flowers, 
No  fair  hand  to  cherish,  no  soft  voice  to  bless. 

Ill-fated  Boabdil !  thy  name  shall  be  hated  ! 

The  babe  shall  repeat  it  with  moaning  and  tears, 

And  the  eye  which  was  sparkling,  with  pleasure  elated, 
Indignant  shall  glance  on  thy  cowardly  fears." 

He  paused,  and  led  away  his  mourning  bride, 

In  grief  his  solace,  and  in  joy  his  pride. 
But  whither  do  his  weary  footsteps  bend  I5 

What  clime  his  broken  heart  one  joy  can  lend  1 
Where  can  he  now  from  shame  despairing  fly, — 

Beneath  what  golden  sun,  what  beaming  sky  1 

On  Afric's  arid  plains  and  yellow  sands, 
Leagued  with  the  Moslem's  wild  and  ruthless  bands, 
With  desperate  force  he  grasp'd  the  fatal  lance, 
And  shrank  not  at  the  scimitar's  broad  glance  : 
Fighting  for  strangers'  rights  he  bravely  fell, 
While  his  own  land  was  sunk  in  slavery's  spell ; 
Far  from  affection's  soft  and  soothing  hand, 
Interr'd  by  strangers  in  a  foreign  land. 

How  strange  the  structure  of  the  human  heart, 
Which  springs  anew  'neath  sorrow's  quivering  dart ; 
Bursting  from  wild  despair,  from  sullen  gloom, 
And  fired  by  frenzy,  hastening  to  the  tomb. 
Reckless  of  danger, — rushing  to  the  strife, — 
For  strangers  bleeding, — yielding  even  life, — 
Thus  did  Boabdil  sink  on  Afric's  plain, 
His  name  dishonour'd  in  his  own  bright  Spain ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  229 


NOTES ^TO  BOABDIL  EL  CHICO. 

NOTE  I. 
"  Behold  yon  gate  !  the  ancient  sages  say." 

On  the  keystone  of  the  arch  is  engraven  a  gigantic  hand  ;  within 
the  vestibule  on  the  keystone  of  the  portal  is  engraven  in  like 
manner  a  gigantic  key.  Those  who  pretend  to  some  knowledge 
of  Mahometan  symbols  affirm,  that  the  hand  is  an  emblem  of  doc 
trine,  and  the  key  of  faith.  The  latter,  they  add,  was  emblazoned 
on  the  standard  of  the  Moslems,  when  they  subdued  Andalusia,  in 
opposition  to  the  Christian  emblem  of  the  cross.  According  to 
Mateo,  it  is  a  tradition  handed  down  from  the  oldest  inhabitants, 
that  the  hand  and  key  were  magical  devices,  upon  which  the  fate 
of  the  Alhambra  depended.  The  Moorish  king  who  built  it  was 
a  great  magician,  and,  as  some  believe,  had  sold  himself  to  the 
devil,  and  had  lain  the  whole  fortress  under  a  magical  spell.  This 
spell,  the  tradition  went  on  to  say,  would  last  till  the  hand  on  the 
outer  arch  should  reach  down  and  grasp  the  key,  when  the  whole 
pile  would  tumble  to  pieces,  and  all  the  treasures  buried  beneath 
it  by  the  Moors  would  be  revealed. — Irving. 

NOTE  II. 

"  Why  mourn  as  a  maid,  who  in  sorrow  will  bend." 
It  was  here,  too,  his  affliction  was  embittered  by  the  reproaches 
of  his  mother  Ayxa,  who  had  often  assisted  him  iri  times  of  peril, 
and  had  vainly  sought  to  instil  into  him  a  portion  of  her  own  reso 
lute  spirit — "  Why  mourn  as  a  woman,  for  that  which  as  a  man 
you  could  not  defend "!" — Irving. 

NOTE  III. 

"  Which  long  shall  re-echo  Boabdil's  last  sigh." 
Beyond  the  embowered  regions  of  the  Vega,  you  behold  a  line 
of  arid  hills.  It  was  from  the  summit  of  one  of  these  that  the  un 
fortunate  Boabdil  cast  back  his  last  look  on  Granada,  and  gave 
vent  to  the  agony  of  his  soul.  It  is  the  spot  famous  in  song  and 
history  as  "  The  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor." — Irving. 


230  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

NOTE  IV. 

"  And  he  murmur'd  farewell  on  the  dark  hill  of  tears." 
Another  name  given  to  the  hill  on  the  summit  of  which  he  bade 
farewell  to  Granada. 

NOTE  V. 

"  But  whither  do  his  weary  footsteps  bend?" 
After  leaving-  the  Alpuxara  mountains  he  proceeded  to  Africa, 
and  died  in  defence  of  the  territories  of  Muley  Aben,  King  of  Fez. 
On  leaving  Spain,  a  band  of  faithful  followers  and  the  members  of 
his  household  collected  on  the  beach,  to  bid  him  farewell.  As  the 
vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked  was  slowly  floating  onward,  they 
shouted,  "  Farewell,  Boabdil !  Allah  preserve  thee,  El  Zogoybi !"  (or 
ike  unlucky.)  The  name  thus  given  him  sank  so  deeply  into  his 
heart,  that  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  arid  was  unable  to  speak 
from  emotion. 

1834. 


THE  SHUNAMITE. 

THE  sun  had  gently  shed  his  twilight  beams 
O'er  Shunam's  graceful  waving  harvest  fields, 
And  with  his  golden  rays  each  object  tinged, 
Imparting  to  all  nature  hues  of  joy  : 
The  western  sky  had  caught  his  parting  ray, 
And  with  reflected  glory  shone  above, 
In  all  the  lovely  varied  hues  which  deck 
A  summer  sky ;  masses  of  floating  cloud 
Hung  gorgeous  in  the  clear,  blue  firmament, 
Brilliant  as  are  the  fairest  rainbow's  hues ; 
While  round  them  spread  the  light  and  silver  haze, 
Beyond  whose  folds  the  eye  could  just  discern 
The  pure  transparence  of  the  azure  heaven. 
The  scene  was  beautiful !     A  tranquil  sleep 
Seem'd  on  the  brow  of  nature  lightly  resting ! 
It  was  an  hour  when  the  pure  soul  might  rise 
And  dwell  in  sweet  communion  with  its  God, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  231 

And  contemplation  and  unmingled  love 

Find  for  a  while  repose  and  silence  there. 

But  where  is  sha,  the  gentle,  lovely  mother, 

Whose  soul  delighted  in  an  hour  like  this  1 

Oh,  why  does  not  her  footstep  softly  shake 

From  the  moist  grass  the  drops  of  pearly  dew  1 

Say,  have  the  glittering  charms  of  wealth  and  pride 

Allured  her  from  the  sweetest  charms  of  nature  1 

Have  the  gay  baubles  she  was  wont  to  scorn 

Enticed  her  from  this  lovely  scene  away  1 

It  cannot  be ;  perchance  amid  the  sick 

Or  suffering  poor,  her  pitying  spirit 

Finds  sweet  employment,  while  her  liberal  hand 

Offers  relief  to  the  sad  pensioners 

Who  on  her  bounty  live.     No !  while  her  heart 

Was  free  from  care  and  racking  anguish, 

She  could  soothe  another's  grief;  but  now — 

Alas !  how  alter'd  now — her  darling  child, 

The  laughing,  sprightly  boy,  who  at  her  side 

Was  wont  in  childish  frolic  to  remain — 

Where  is  he  now  ]     The  tones  of  his  soft  voice 

Would  soothe  a  mourner's  heart,  however  sad, 

Much  more  the  mother's,  who  so  dearly  loved  him — 

Ay,  loved  him  !  for  she  now  hath  nought  to  love 

Save  the  cold  remnant  of  what  once  was  life ! 

Yes  !  in  the  splendid  mansion,  which  but  seems 

To  mock  her  heartfelt  agony,  she  weeps, 

And  weeping,  watches  o'er  the  lifeless  corpse 

Of  her  adored,  her  beautiful,  her  boy. 

Perhaps  just  heaven  removed  this  cherish'd  flower, 

That  her  own  heart,  bereft  of  earthly  joy, 

Might  cling  more  closely  to  her  God  and  Maker. 

I  know  not — but  the  blow  was  keenly  felt, 

And  deeply,  truly  mourn'd. 

The  spacious  room 

With  rich,  embroider'd  tapestry  was  hung, 
And,  mingled  with  the  massy,  crimson  folds, 
Shone  many  a  gem  of  burning  lustre. 
The  floor  was  paved  with  polish'd  marble, 
And  the  lifeless  form  which  lay  before  her 


232  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Was  array'd  in  costly  garments ;  but  she, 
Vainly  communing  there  with  icy  death, 
If  at  her  feet  lay  all  the  wealth  of  nations, 
One  speaking  glance  of  life  from  those  sweet  eyes 
Now  closed  for  ever,  had  been  worth  it  all. 
The  boy  lay  gently  cradled  on  the  knee 
Of  the  fond  mother,  and  her  crimson  robe 
Around  his  form  was  wrapt ;  while  on  one  arm 
His  fair,  young  head  was  pillow'd,  and  her  brow, 
Her  aching  brow,  reclined  upon  the  other. 
The  auburn  curls  around  his  temples  clung, 
Clustering  in  beauty  there,  and  the  blue  veins, 
So  clearly  seen  'neath  the  transparent  skin, 
Seem'd  flowing  still  with  life-blood ;  the  long  lash 
Of  his  blue,  half-closed  eye  appear'd  to  tremble 
On  his  fair  cheek,  while  the  fast-rolling  tears 
Which  from  his  mother's  darker  orbits  fell, 
Dropp'd  from  his  snowy  brow,  as  they  had  rested 
Upon  a  marble  statue. 

Her  grief 

Burst  forth  awhile  in  sobs  and  bitter  groans, 
But  when  the  view  of  death  had  for  a  time 
Met  her  dull  vision,  and  the  sight  of  sorrow 
Grew  more  familiar,  then  her  full  heart 
Burst  forth  in  words,  simple  but  plaintive. 
Sweetly  pathetic  were  the  gentle  tones 
Of  her  melodious  voice ;  no  ear 
Could  listen  but  to  pity,  and  no  eye 
That  saw  her  but  must  gaze  and  weep. 


LAMENT. 

And  art  thou  gone,  my  beautiful,  my  boy, 
Thy  sorrowing  father's  pride,  thy  mother's  joy  ! 
I  had  not  thought,  my  child,  to  view  thee  so, 
In  death's  cold  clasp  laid  motionless  and  low  ! 
I  had  not  thought  to  close  thy  beaming  eyes, 
To  hear  thy  dying  groans,  thy  feeble  cries. 
Alas !  that  thus  for  thee  my  tears  should  flow ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  233 

I  thought  not  that  this  form,  so  fair  and  bright, 
Death  with  his  chilling  arrows  e'er  could  blight ; 
And  oh,  my  child,  my  child,  it  cannot  be 
That  his  cold  hand  hath  rested  upon  thee  ! 
That  this  fair  form,  so  active  but  to-day, 
Is  now  a  senseless,  lifeless  mass  of  clay — 
Dust  of  the  earth,  fit  subject  for  decay ! 

How  white  thy  brow !  how  beautiful  thy  skin  ! 

The  spirit  must  be  resting  still  within  ! 

The  pure,  warm  blood  thy  lip  is  tinging  still, — 

The  purple  current  seems  each  vein  to  fill ! 

Oh  no,  it  cannot  be  !     My  boy,  awake ! 

Rouse,  from  this  slumber,  for  thy  mother's  sake  ! 

Rouse,  ere  that  mother's  mourning  heart  shall  break ! 

It  is  not  so  !  my  boy  is  gone  for  ever, 
And  I  shall  view  his  face  again,  oh  never  ! 
Ah,  my  sweet  boy  !  I've  watch' d  thine  infant  years 
With  joy  and  grief,  alternate  hopes  and  fears. 
For  many  a  night  I've  borne  thee  on  my  knee, 
Full  many  an  hour  of  care  I've  spent  for  thee  ; 
Thy  joy  would  glad  me,  and  thy  grief  bring  tears. 

Fond  fancy  pictured  thee  a  noble  man, 
The  fairest  work  in  nature's  wondrous  plan ; 
The  foremost  leader  in  each  patriot  band, 
Redeeming  Syria  from  her  foeman's  hand ; 
Fearless  in  battle,  swiftest  in  the  race, 
Replete  with  courage,  virtue,  strength,  and  grace ; 
I  saw  thee  generous,  noble,  active,  mild, 
And  blest  the  hero  as  my  darling  child ! 

But  oh,  my  God !  these  hopes  were  crush'd  by  thee ! 
How  shall  I  murmur  at  thy  dread  decree  ! 
Hush,  rebel  spirit !  whispering  conscience  tells 
I  should  not  vent  each  troubled  thought  which  swells 

In  my  torn  heart — my  woes  I'll  speak  no  more, 
Nor  each  vain  thought  which  there  impatient  dwells, 

Waiting  for  utterance  at  my  bosom's  door. 
16 


234  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Rouse,  dormant  soul !  nor  sleep  when  needed  most, 
While  thy  frail  bark  on  adverse  seas  is  tost, 
And  all  thy  comfort,  all  thy  hope  is  lost ! 
I'll  hie  me  to  the  prophet's  mountain  home, 
He  shall  redeem  my  darling  from  the  tomb, 
Or  teach  me  how,  resign'd,  to  bear  my  doom. 

She  ceased ; 

A  glance  of  hope  o'er  her  pale  features  flash'd, 
And  with  unwonted  energy  she  raised 
Her  feeble  hands  in  prayer  to  heaven. 
Once  more  she  press'd  her  pallid  lips  upon 
The  marble  forehead  of  her  lovely  boy, 
Then  rising,  laid  the  cold  and  lifeless  load 
From  off  her  bosom,  strong  in  her  despair ; 
Then  wildly  throwing  back  the  silken  folds 
Which  droop'd  upon  the  wall,  she  rush'd  along, 
Through  many  a  corridor  and  hall,  illumed 
With  glittering  lamps  and  gems  of  burning  lustre. 
Her  sandall'd  feet  glanced  lightly  on  the  floor, 
And  her  soft  tread  no  answering  echo  gave ; 
But  heavier  far  her  footstep  would  have  been, 
Beneath  the  galling  burden  on  her  heart, 
If  all  had  been  despair ;  but  the  small  grain  of  hope 
Which  linger'd  still  within,  her  onward  course 
Served  but  to  quicken ;  something  in  her  soul 
Seem'd  battling  with  its  sorrow,  and  a  spark, 
Lighted  by  hope,  within,  a  tiny  star, 
Shone  o'er  the  almost  desert  gloom  of  wo. 
She  hasted  on;  and  soon  her  form  was  lost, 
In  its  dim  outline,  amid  the  windings 
Of  her  noble  mansion.     Where  hath  she  gone  1 
Why  at  this  moment  leave  her  lifeless  son! 
What  human  voice  can  yield  her  heart  relief! 
What  hand  redeem  her  loved  one  from  the  dust1? 
Return,  frail  mourner !  and  indulge  thy  grief, 
Where  none  are  nigh  to  view  its  heartfelt  pangs ; 
Return,  nor  seek  one  sympathetic  heart 
In  the  cold  world  around  thee :  thou  wilt  see, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  235 

Since  rankling  sorrow  hath  oppress'd  thy  soul, 

All  who  with  smiles  attended  thee  before 

Will  gaze  on  th«e  in  scorn,  and  mock  thy  tears, 

Nor  heed  thy  bitter  groans.     Oh  better  far 

In  thine  own  heart  to  hide  each  torturing  grief, 

And  meet  thy  sorrow  here.     But  she  hath  gone  ! 

Twilight  is  stealing  on,  and  she  hath  gone ! 

And  where  3 — Gaze  on  yon  rugged  path,  which  leads 

Far  onward  to  the  mountain's  brow,  and  there 

Behold  her  toiling  on  her  weary  way  ! 

The  thorny  brambles  meet  along  her  path, 

And  close  around  o'ershadowing  thickets  grow — 

But  still  she  rushes  on — the  piercing  thorn 

Or  fallen  bough,  alike  unheeding  all, 

And  with  despairing  heart  and  weary  step 

Reaches  the  mighty  prophet's  mountain  home. 

****** 

The  last  faint  day-streak  gleams  on  Carmel's  brow, 

And  lights  the  tearful  traveller  on  her  way, 

As  with  the  holy  man  of  God  she  turns 

Her  sorrowing  footsteps  backward  to  her  home. — 

They  enter,  and  once  more  she  stands  beside 

The  silent  couch  of  her  unconscious  boy. 

There,  overcome  by  speechless,  mute  despair, 

Her  agony  how  great ! — Cold,  deathlike  drops 

Hang  on  her  snowy  brow,  and,  half-distracted 

With  o'erwhelming  grief,  she  turns  her  from  the  sight 

Of  the  dear  object  of  her  fondest  love. 

****** 
Behold  the  prophet !     Lo !  the  man  of  God 
Is  lowly  bending  o'er  the  couch  of  death — 
His  long,  dark  mantle  floating  loosely  round 
His  tall,  majestic  form ;  his  silver  locks 
Parted  far  backward  on  his  noble  brow, 
And  his  full,  piercing  eye  upraised  to  heaven ! — 
His  hands  are  clasp'd — the  feeble  ringers 
Trembling  with  emotion  ;  and  from  his  lips 
Bursts  forth  an  ardent  prayer.     He  ceased, 
And  on  the  body  stretch'd  his  aged  form, 


236  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Press'd  his  warm  lips  upon  the  marble  brow, 
And  chafed  the  infant  limbs. 
'Tis  done  ! — behold,  the  sleeping  child  awakes, 
And  sweetly  smiles  upon  the  holy  man  ! 
And  lo !  the  weeping  mother  clasps  her  boy 
Again,  redeem'd  from  the  embrace  of  death, 
And  strains  him  to  her  throbbing  heart,  as  though 
She  fear'd  the  ruthless  tyrant  yet  once  more 
Might  snatch  him  from  her  arms ! 
While  the  dread  prophet  stands  aloof  from  all, 
And  views  the  object  of  his  fervent  prayer 
Restored  again  to  love,  and  light,  and  life  ! 


1834. 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 

THROUGH  proud  Belshazzar's  lofty  halls 

A  wavering  light  is  streaming, 
And  o'er  his  heaven-defying  walls, 

The  blaze  of  torches  gleaming. 
Hark  !  the  voice  of  music  breaks 

Softly  on  the  midnight  air, 
Each  boisterous  shout  of  laughter  speaks 

Of  hearts  untouch'd  by  wo  or  care. 

The  sounds  of  joy  harmonious  floating 

Over  Euphrates'  silver  tide, 
Which  flows  in  ripples,  gently  passing 

Near  many  a  tower  of  stately  pride. 
With  mirth,  Belshazzar's  halls  resound, 

Joy  spreads  each  smiling  feature  o'er, 
And  laughing  hundreds  gather  round 

The  red  libations,  as  they  pour 

From  silver  cup,  and  golden  urn, 
Once  mantling  with  the  holy  wine, 

By  impious  hands  in  frenzy  torn 
From  great  Jehovah's  sacred  shrine. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  237 

Surrounded  by  each  smiling  guest, 

In  regal  pomp  and  splendid  state, 
With  all  save  God's  approval  blest, 

The  warrior  king  serenely  sate. 

Their  hearts  demoniac  pleasure  found, 

Exulting  triumph  swell'd  their  strain, 
While  Israel's  children,  captive,  bound, 

Were  groaning  'neath  their  weight  of  pain : 
Bright  lamps  o'erhung  the  festive  scene, 

Diffusing  soften'd  brilliance  round, 
While  mocking  Israel's  mighty  Lord, 

They  dash'd  his  wine-cups  to  the  ground. 

Why  does  Belshazzar's  lip  turn  pale  1 

Why  shrinks  his  form  with  trembling  fear  7 
Why  fades,  within  his  tiger  eye, 

The  scornful  glance,  the  taunting  sneer  1 
A  shadowy  cloud  o'erhangs  the  wall, 

A  mighty  hand  each  fold  reveals ! 
There's  silence  in  that  princely  hall, 

And  trembling  awe  each  vein  congeals. 

The  mystic  fingers  darkly  move, 

And  words  unknown  in  silence  trace ; 
Wide  o'er  the  illumin'd  walls  they  spread, 

While  horror  fills  each  pallid  face ; 
Oh  !  who  those  awful  words  may  read, 

Or  who  their  mighty  import  tell  1 
What  hand  perform'd  the  fearful  deed, 

What  tongue  may  break  the  magic  spell  ] 

Come  forth,  ye  Chaldean  seers !  come  forth, 

Ye  men  of  Egypt's  burning  soil ! 
Let  the  dread  words  your  thoughts  employ, 

And  be  the  object  of  your  toil ! 
Oh,  gaze  upon  the  glowing  wall ! 

Ha !  proud  magicians,  do  ye  shrink  1 
Say,  does  the  sight  your  hearts  appal 

As  if  on  death's  terrific  brink? 


238  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Now,  strive  to  win  the  golden  crown, 

The  scarlet  robe,  the  badge  of  power — 
And  tell  if  heaven  in  justice  frown, 

If  round  your  king  the  tempest  lower. 
But  still  they  shrink  with  innate  fear, 

Still  from  the  awful  scene  retire ; 
While  trembling  lips  proclaim  their  awe, 

And  rouse  the  monarch's  fiercest  ire. 

Who  may  the  characters  explain, 
When  Chaldea's  ancient  sages  fail  1 

Must  the  dread  secret  thus  remain 
Wrapt  in  its  dark,  mysterious  veil  1 

Come  forth,  thou  man  of  God,  come  forth  1 

By  heaven  beloved,  by  man  reviled, 
Robed  in  the  mantle  of  thy  faith, 

Come  forth,  Jehovah's  chosen  child ! 
Fear  not  to  read  Belshazzar's  fate  ! 

Thy  heavenly  Father  guards  thee  still ! 
Though  robed  in  scarlet,  throned  in  state, 

Thy  God  can  mould  him  at  his  will. 

Oh,  mark  his  firm,  majestic  mien ! 

Oh,  mark  his  broad  and  lofty  brow  ! 
With  soften'd  courage,  calm,  serene, 

And  flushed  with  conscious  virtue's  glow. 
Well  might  they  shrink  before  the  man, 

Whose  gaze  had  reach'd  the  realms  of  bliss, 
Whose  eye  had  pierced  a  brighter  world, 

Whose  spotless  soul  had  soar'd  from  this. 

Oh  hark  !  his  firm  and  manly  voice 

Is  heard  within  that  princely  hall, 
No  more  the  impious  crowds  rejoice, 

But  thrilling  silence  spreads  o'er  all. 
"  Oh  king !  in  wealth,  and  pride,  and  power, 

At  God's  great  footstool  humbly  fall, 
That  God  hath  seal'd  thy  doom  this  hour, 

*Tis  stamp'd  on  yonder  fated  walL 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  239 

"  Thy  stubborn  knee  was  never  bent, 

Thy  earthly  heart  was  humbled  never 
Before  the  throne  of  Israel's  God, 

Of  life,  of  breath,  of  power  the  giver. 
Against  the  Lord  of  heaven  thy  hand 

In  bold  impiety  is  raised 
And  vessels  sacred  to  his  name 

The  feasts  of  idol  gods  have  graced. 

"  He,  in  whose  balance  lords  of  earth 

With  justice,  mercy,  power,  are  tried, 
Hath  weigh'd  thine  errors  and  thy  worth, 

But  virtue  is  o'ercome  by  pride. 
From  death  thou  art  no  longer  free, 

Thy  sun  of  glory  shall  decline ; 
The  golden  crown  no  more  shall  bind 

That  proud,  ambitious  brow  of  thine. 

"  The  Medes  and  Persians  shall  possess 

That  which  so  lately  was  thine  own ; 
God  will  e'en  now  our  wrongs  redress, 

And  hurl  thee  from  thy  tottering  throne." 
He  ceased,— an  awful  silence  reign'd, 

And  chain'd  each  scarcely  throbbing  breast. 
Where  were  the  passions  once  so  rude  1 — 

Lull'd  by  the  prophet's  voice  to  rest ! 

Gaze  on  Belshazzar's  pallid  brow, 

And  trace  the  livid  horror  there; 
Big  drops  o'erhang  its  surface  now, 

And  backward  starts  the  clustering  hair ; 
His  eyeballs  strain'd  and  wildly  staring 

Upon  the  spot  which  bears  his  doom, 
Seem  like  a  frighted  lion  glaring 

Through  the  dark  forest's  lonely  gloom. 
***** 
Morn  hath  brighten'd  o'er  Chaldea, 

Morning,  lovely,  fragrant,  bright ; 
Glory  crowns  a  night  of  terror, 

Deeds  of  darkness  view  her  light. 


240  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Euphrates'  waves  are  brightly  sparkling 
Beneath  Aurora's  rosy  beam, 

As  though  the  night  had  never  darken'd 
Above  its  broad  and  rapid  stream. 

The  close  of  evening  view'd  it  smiling, 

Deck'd  with  barks  and  forms  of  light, 
The  weary  moments  still  beguiling, 

Sporting  on  its  bosom  bright. 
Where  are  all  its  beauties  banish'd  1 

Why  its  banks  so  lone  and  still  ] 
Have  all  its  pride  and  glory  vanished, 

All  save  desolation  chill  1 

The  Mede  and  Persian  have  been  here, 
Heaven's  just  vengeance  to  fulfil, 

Proud  Belshazzar  reigns  no  more, 
God  has  wrought  his  sovereign  will. 

1834. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

WHEN  last  this  morning  brightly  shone, 

Around  my  youthful  head, 
Inspiring  love  and  joy  and  glee, 

Dismissing  fear  and  dread, 

I  thought  not,  I  should  see  thee  here 
Reclining  on  thy  Margaret's  breast, 

I  thought  that  in  a  brighter  sphere 
Thy  weary  soul  would  sweetly  rest. 

But  since  the  mighty  God  above 
Has  granted  this  my  fervent  prayer, 

My  heart  is  fill'd  with  joy  and  love 
For  all  his  kindness  and  his  care. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  241 

Oh  may  his  guardian  wings  overspread, 
To  guard  from  sorrow,  pain  or  harm, 

My  mother'a-weary  aching  head, 
And  every  rising  fear  disarm. 

May  sweet  reflections  soothe  thy  cares, 
And  fill  with  peace  thy  beating  heart, 

And  may  the  feast  which  love  prepares, 
A  sweet  security  impart. 

When  He,  who  warm'd  thy  gentle  soul, 

And  planted  every  virtue  there 
Shall  snatch  thee  hence  to  realms  of  bliss 

And  free  from  earthly  sin  and  care. 

Oh,  may  a  daughter's  tender  hand 

The  pillow  of  affliction  smooth, 
Teach  every  grief  to  lose  its  pang, 

And  every  sorrow  fondly  soothe. 


1834. 


ON  VISITING  THE  PANORAMA  OF  GENEVA. 

OH,  if  a  painter's  touch  can  form  thee  thus, 
So  bright  with  all  an  artist's  hand  can  give, 

How  passing  beautiful  those  scenes  must  be, 
Which  here  inanimate,  there  sweetly  live. 

Each  verdant  shrub,  which  here  inactive  bends, 

So  gently  waving  o'er  the  placid  stream, 
And  the  sweet  brook,  which  winds  so  silent  now, 

Reflecting  back  the  sun's  effulgent  beam. 

Look,  where  the  mighty  torrent  of  the  Rhone, 
Far,  far  beyond  my  wandering  eye  extends, 

And  see  yon  crumbling  fort,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 
O'er  whose  high  wall  the  weeping  willow  bends. 


42  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Mark  on  the  right,  yon  broad  expanse  of  blue, 

Lake  Leman,  placid,  beautiful,  and  clear, 
So  gently  murmuring,  as  it  flows  along, 

Of  peace  and  happiness  implanted  there. 

And  towering  far  above,  the  mighty  Alps 

Rear  their  tall  heads  terrific  and  sublime, 
Each  snow-capp'd  summit  mingling  with  the  clouds, 

Seems  to  defy  the  ravages  of  time. 

It  seems  as  though  the  glowing  canvass  moved, 
Each  figure  fill'd  with  life  and  joy  and  love, 

As  if  the  dark  blue  waters  at  my  feet, 

Would  break  the  chain  which  binds  them  there,  and  move. 

Each  hill,  each  rock  seems  bursting  into  life, 

The  painter  mock'd  reality  so  well ; 
It  seems  as  if  those  shadowy  forms  would  speak, 

Could  they  but  break  the  artist's  magic  spell. 

1834. 


THE  FUNERAL  BELL. 

HARK  !  the  loudly  pealing  bell 

Rises  on  the  morning  air ; 
Its  tones  subdued  and  sadly  swell, 

For  death,  unpitying  death  is  there  ! — 
Hark  !  again  it  peals  aloud, 

Bearing  sorrow  on  its  tone  ; 
While  from  the  sad  assembled  crowd, 

Is  heard  the  echoing  sob  and  groan. 

Yes,  in  that  solemn  note  is  heard 
A  voice,  proclaiming  wo  and  death  ; 

A  voice  which  tells  of  endless  time. 
Of  sorrow's  desolating  breath. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  243 

To  the  warm  fancy  it  would  say, 

In  words  which  strike  the  heart  with  fear ; 

Words  for  the  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay, 
Words  echoed  from  the  sable  bier : — 

"  A  spirit  from  the  world  hath  fled, 

A  soul  from  earth  departed  ; 
While  mourners  weep  above  the  dead, 

Despairing — broken-hearted  ! 
Through  the  vast  fields  of  viewless  time 

That  conscious  soul  hath  gone  ; 
To  answer  for  each  earthly  crime, 

At  God's  eternal  throne. 

"  There  at  his  mighty  bar  it  stands, 

A  trembling,  guilty  thing, 
To  answer  all  his  Judge  demands, 

Or  his  dread  praises  sing  ! 
Dust  to  its  kindred  dust  returns  ! 

Earth  to  its  mother  earth  ! 
Still'd  are  its  passions  and  its  cares, 

And  hush'd  its  voice  of  mirth. 

"  Then  learn  from  this,  how  weak  and  vain 

Is  every  earthly  gift ; 
How  in  one  instant  all  may  fade, 

And  leave  thee  thus  bereft, 
When  thy  fond  heart  is  fill'd  with  joy, 

With  gay  and  mirthful  feeling, 
Bethink  thee,  that  the  form  of  death 

Beside  thee  may  be  stealing. 
That,  ere  another  hour  has  past, 

That  rosy  smile  may  fade, 
And  the  light  form  that  glides  so  fast, 

In  the  cold  tomb  be  laid. 

"  That  the  young  heart  within  that  clay, 
To  God's  dread  bar  shall  pass  away, 


244  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  the  dim  future,  dark  to  thee, 

Shall  bear  it  on  its  tideless  sea, 
To  light  or  darkness,  joy  or  wo, 

Just  as  thy  life  hath  pass'd  below." 

1834. 

VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  TWELVE  YEARS  OF  AGE. 
LINES 

ON  RECEIVING  A  BLANK-BOOK  FROM  MY  MOTHER. 

THOUGH  the  new  year  has  open'd  in  sickness  and  fear, 
Though  its  dawning  has  witness'd  the  sigh  and  the  tear, 
Though  the  load  on  my  heart  and  the  weight  on  my  brain, 
And  the  sadness  around  me  cause  sorrow  and  pain, 
Each  feeling  of  wo  from  my  bosom  is  driven 
While  I  view  the  sweet  volume  affection  has  given, 
And  gazing  delighted  on  binding  and  leaf, 
I  forget  every  thought  which  is  tinctured  with  grief. 
Though  it  needed  no  gift  from  my  mother  to  prove 
The  depth  of  that  current  of  long-cherish'd  love, 
Which  hath  flow'd  on  unceasing,  unaltering  still, 
Through  sorrows  unable  its  bright  waves  to  chill, 
Yet,  'tis  strangely  delightful,  'tis  sweet  to  possess 
Some  memento  to  cherish  and  gaze  on  like  this, 
Some  gift  which  long  hence  may  impart  to  the  mind 
Fresh  hues  of  the  image  there  sweetly  enshrined : 
Which,  when  every  gay  feeling  is  clouded  with  night, 
May  burst  on  the  soul  like  an  angel  of  light, 
And  presenting  unalter'd  the  visions  of  love, 
Which  had  slumber'd  awhile  the  more  sweetly  to  soothe, 
May  illumine  the  darkness  with  radiance  sublime, 
But  more  bright  from  repose,  and  unclouded  by  tune. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  245 

Oh  think  not,  my  mother,  I  ever  shall  part 
From  a  token  thus  soothing  and  sweet  to  my  heart ; 
That  the  dear  little  volume  thus  coming  from  thee, 
Shall  e'er  be  less  valued,  less  cherish'd  by  me. 
When  the  fathomless  future  its  page  shall  unfold, 
When  time  o'er  this  head  now  so  youthful  has  roll'd 
And  left  me  like  others,  gray,  wither'd  and  old, 
Then,  then  shall  this  gift  of  the  merry  new  year, 
From  the  loved  one  whose  spirit  no  longer  is  here, 
Impart  a  sweet  sadness,  and  draw  the  warm  tear. 
'Twill  bring  fresh  to  remembrance  my  own  lovely  home, 
And  each  feeling,  each  hope  which  is  now  in  its  bloom. 
As  a  fair  little  talisman  bound  up  with  joy 
'Twill  be  clasp'd  to  my  bosom  its  fond  hopes  to  buoy, 
And  the  love  now  within  it  must  cease  there  to  dwell, 
When  I  bid  this  dear  volume  a  lasting  farewell. 

1835. 


TO  FANCY. 

FLY  on,  aerial  Fancy  !  fly 

Back,  back  through  many  an  age, 

To  scenes  which  long  have  glided  by, 
Untold  on  history's  page. 

Oh,  stretch  thy  heavenward  wings  and  soar 
Through  clouds  mysterious  and  sublime, 

To  scenes  which  earth  shall  view  no  more, 
Far  down  the  dark  abyss  of  time. 

Lit  by  thy  pure,  celestial  touch, 

Earth,  heaven,  and  sea  have  softly  glow'd, 
Nought  in  created  space  which  ne'er 

To  thine  enchanting  sway  hath  bow'd. 


246  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Worlds  framed  and  beautified  by  thee, 
Have  glow'd  with  every  rainbow  hue, 

And  o'er  each  meaner  thing  thy  form 
Hath  shed  a  radiance  as  it  flew. 

All  potent  fancy  !  deign  to  bend 

One  glance  upon  thy  suppliant  here  ! 

Thy  glowing  car  in  kindness  send, 
And  bear  me  to  thy  beauteous  sphere. 

Believe  me,  thou  hast  ever  been 

The  cherish'd  monarch  of  my  heart ! 

There's  riot  one  thought,  one  hope,  one  scene, 
In  which  thy  vagaries  huve  no  part. 

Then  deign  to  look  with  pitying  eye 
Upon  thy  votary's  bended  form  ; 

Disperse  each  cloud  from  yonder  sky, 
And  clasp  me  in  thy  guardian  arm. 

1835. 


INVOCATION  TO  SPRING. 

BEND  down  from  thy  chariot,  oh  beautiful  Spring, 

Unfold  like  a  standard  thy  radiant  wing, 

And  beauty  and  joy  in  thy  rosy  path  bring  ! 

We  long  for  thy  coming,  sweet  goddess  of  love, 

We  watch  for  thy  smile  in  the  pure  sky  above, 

And  we  sigh  for  the  hour  when  the  wood  birds  shall  sing, 

And  nature  shall  welcome  thee,  beautiful  Spring ! 

How  the  lone  heart  will  bound  as  thy  presence  draws  near, 

As  if  borne  from  this  world  to  some  lovelier  sphere  ! 

How  the  fond  soul  to  meet  thee  in  raptures  shall  rise, 

When  thy  first  blush  has  tinted  the  earth  and  the  skies. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  247 

Oh,  send  thy  soft  breath  on  the  icy-bound  stream, 

'Twill  vanish,  'twill  melt,  like  the  forms  in  a  dream, 

Released  from  its  chains,  like  a  child  in  its  glee, 

'Twill  flow  on  in  its  beauty,  all  sparkling  and  free. 

It  will  spring  on  in  joy,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 

And  hail  thee  with  music,  oh  beautiful  Spring  ! 

But  tread  with  thy  foot  on  the  snow-cover'd  plain, 

And  verdure  and  beauty  shall  smile  in  thy  train. 

Only  whisper  one  word  with  thy  seraph-like  voice, 

And  nature  to  hear  the  sweet  sound  shall  rejoice  ! 

Oh,  Spring  !  lovely  goddess  !  what  form  can  compare 

With  thine  so  resplendent,  so  glowing,  so  fair  ? 

What  sunbeam  so  bright  as  thine  own  smiling  eye, 

At  whose  glance  the  dark  spirits  of  winter  do  fly  1 

A  garland  of  roses  is  twined  round  thy  brow, 

Thy  cheek  like  the  pale  blush  of  evening  doth  glow ; 

A  mantle  of  green  o'er  thy  soft  form  is  spread, 

And  the  zephyr's  light  wing  gently  plays  round  thy  head. 

Oh,  could  I  but  mount  on  the  eagle's  dark  wing, 

And  rest  ever  beside  thee,  Spring,  beautiful  Spring  ! 

Methinks,  I  behold  thee  !  I  hear  thy  soft  voice ! 

And  in  fulness  of  heart  I  rejoice  !  I  rejoice  ! 

But  the  cold  wind  is  moaning,  the  drear  snow  doth  fall, 

And  nought  but  the  shrieking  blast  echoes  my  call. 

Oh,  heed  the  frail  offering  an  infant  can  bring  ! 

Oh,  grant  my  petition,  Spring,  beautiful  Spring  ! 

1835. 


FROM  THE  ONE  HUNDRED  AND  THIRTY-NINTH 
PSALM. 

WHERE  from  thy  presence  shall  I  flee  T 
Where  seek  a  hiding-place  from  thee  1 
If  the  pure  breath  of  heaven  I  share, 
Lo !  I  shall  find  thy  spirit  there  ! 
If  wandering  to  the  depths  of  hell, 
I  trust  in  secrecy  to  dwell, 


248  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Behold !  in  all  thy  power  and  might, 

Thou,  Lord,  shalt  pierce  the  veil  of  night. 

If  on  the  radiant  wings  of  morn 

To  unknown  lands  I'm  gently  borne  ; 

There,  even  there  thy  hand  shall  lead, 

Thy  voice  support  my  sinking  head. 

If  to  my  inmost  soul  I  say, 

Darkness  and  night  shall  shroud  my  way, 

That  darkness  shall  dissolve  in  light, 

And  day  usurp  the  throne  of  night. 

No  power  can  dim  thy  searching  eye, 

Or  bid  thy  guardian  spirit  fly. 

Thou  knowest  well  each  infant  thought, 

Which  passion,  pride,  or  sin  has  taught ; 

And  doubts  and  fears,  but  half  express'd, 

To  thee,  Almighty,  stand  confess'd. 

Plain  as  the  waves  of  yonder  sea, 

Man's  subtlest  thoughts  are  known  to  thee. 

From  the  small  insect  tribe,  which  plays 

Within  the  sun's  enlivening  rays, 

To  the  broad  ocean  waves,  which  rise 

In  heaving  billows  to  the  skies. 

Or  great  or  small,  each  work  of  thine, 

It  whispers  of  a  hand  divine. 

Each  breeze  which  fans  the  twilight  hour, 

Speeds  onward,  guided  by  thy  power ; 

Each  wind  which  wildly  sweeps  abroad, 

Is  teeming  with  the  voice  of  God. 

1835. 


STANZAS. 

THE  power  of  mind,  the  force  of  genius, 
Oh,  what  human  heart  can  tell, 

Or  the  deep  and  stirring  thoughts, 
Which  in  the  poet's  bosom  dwell ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  249 

The  high  and  holy  dreams  of  heaven, 

Which  raise  the  soul  above 
This  world  of  care,  this  sphere  of  sin, 

To  realms  t>  flight  and  love. 

Oh,  who  can  tell  its  energy  ? 

The  spirit's  power  and  might, 
When  genius,  with  sublimest  force, 

Appoints  its  upward  flight, — 

And  lifts  the  struggling  soul  above 

This  prison-house  of  clay, 
To  roam  amid  the  fancied  realms 

Of  glory  and  of  day  ! 

And  breathes  immortal  vigour 

To  sustain  it  through  this  life, 
The  index  of  a  higher  world, 

With  power  and  beauty  rife. 

Oh,  how  sublime  the  very  thought, 

That  this  frail  form  of  mine 
Contains  a  spirit  destined  soon 

In  purer  worlds  to  shine. 

T' unfold  its  infant  energies, 

In  an  immortal  clime, 
And  far  more  glorious  become 

Each  passing  hour  of  time. 

That  it  contains  the  heavenly  germ 

Of  future  being  now, 
Created  there  to  beautify, 

Where  clearer  waters  flow. 

And  there  expand  the  glowing  bud, 

'Mid  worlds  of  light  and  love, 
Through  the  bright  realms  of  ether, 

In  glory  still  to  rove. 
17 


250  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


LETTER  TO  A  POETICAL  CORRESPONDENT, 

WRITTEN  DURING  MY  ILLNESS,  IN  ANSWER  TO  ONE  IN  WHICH 
SHE  DESCRIBES  PEGASUS  AS  BLIND,  HALT,  AND  LAME,  AND 
ENDEAVOURS  TO  CHEER  ME  WITH  THE  PROSPECT  OF  SPEEDY 
RECOVERY. 

Now,  my  dear  Cousin  Maggy,  behold  me  again, 
Relieved  in  a  measure  from  sickness  and  pain  ; 
With  a  well-sharpen'd  phiz,  and  a  cap  on  my  head, 
Just  bidding  farewell  to  the  irksome  sick  bed, 
And  endeavouring  to  tune  my  enfeebled  young  lyre 
To  a  theme  which  was  wont  its  wild  notes  to  inspire. 
'Tis  long  since  the  muse  to  my  aid  has  descended, 
Or  smiling  and  pleased,  her  poor  votary  befriended  ; 
Now  tired  of  entreaties,  I'll  court  her  no  more, 
But  alone  and  unaided  her  realms  I'll  explore ; 
So,  dear  cousin  Maggy,  condemn  not  my  muse, 
If  my  verse  all  its  rhyme  and  its  harmony  lose, 
For,  vex'd  with  refusals  so  frequent  and  long, 
Without  her  I've  dared  to  engage  in  a  song  ; 
And  shielded  and  guided  by  Clio  no  more, 
To  meet  thy  Pegasus  I  tremblingly  soar. 
While  confined  by  the  shackles  of  sickness  and  pain, 
For  many  a  day  on  my  couch  I  had  lain, 
And  in  seeking  for  rest,  to  my  weak  frame  denied, 
Was  tossing  fatigued  on  each  sore,  aching  side, 
There  came  down  a  tall  spirit  of  light  (as  it  were), 
From  the  realms  of  the  sky  and  the  regions  of  air ; 
He  dispell'd  from  my  bosom  its  gloom  and  its  dread, 
And  kindled  the  torchlight  of  hope  in  their  stead. 
Ah !  then,  my  dear  friend,  so  great  was  his  power, 
He  could  lighten  my  pain,  and  soothe  solitude's  hour ; 
Ah  why  then,  my  cousin,  thus  brand  him  with  shame, 
Ah  why  then  describe  him  as  "  sightless  and  lame  1" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  251 

All  noble  and  lovely  he  seem'd  to  mine  eye, 

And  when  ceasing  to  view  him  I  ceased  with  a  sigh  ! 

His  wings  were  expanded,  his  eye-beam  was  fire ! 

And  that  heart  had  befin  old  he  could  fail  to  inspire. 

But  alas!  I  should  fail,  did  I  strive  to  portray 

But  one  half  of  the  graces  which  round  him  did  play, 

And  held  captive  my  soul  with  their  wildering  sway ; 

So  no  more  I'll  contemplate  his  charms  or  thine  own, 

But  try  to  inform  you  how  we're  getting  on. 

Dear  mother  still  sits  on  her  old  rocking-chair, 

Either  thinking,  or  smiling,  or  silent  with  care ; 

Then  plying  her  needle  with  industry  still, 

Or  scribbling  and  wearing  some  tar    s  h'd  goosequill. 

Dear  Matty  is  thinking  of  railroads  again, 

And  longs  to  get  hold  of  the  rod  and  the  chain. 

He  talks  of  embankment?,  canals,  and  high  bridges, 

Of  steam-cars,  and  tunnels,  of  swamps,  and  of  ditches. 

While  dear  little  Kent,  with  his  well-finger'd  book, 

Sits  gazing  around  him  with  complacent  look  ; 

But  alas  !  my  dear  coz,  the  poor  fellow  has  lost 

The  frequent  amusement  he  valued  the  most : 

For  know,  in  the  midst  of  our  sickness  and  cares, 

The  glass  in  our  parlour  was  carried  up  stairs, 

(Other  furniture  changed — here  was  station'd  a  bed,) 

So  a  mirror  much  smaller  was  placed  in  its  stead, 

And  my  hapless  young  brother  is  able  no  more 

To  admire  his  own  beauty  and  grace  as  before ; 

He  looks  at  the  tempter  all  rueful  and  sad, 

And  in  vain  the  attempt  to  a  1  ain  it  is  made, 

And  with  long,  disappointed,  and  sorrowful  mien, 

He  retires  from  the  spot  to  conceal  his  chagrin. 

Oh !  join,  my  dear  cousin,  with  me,  and  bewail 

That  his  sources  of  pleasure  thus  early  should  fail. 

Old  Leo,  tired  out  with  his  frolic  and  play, 

Lies  quietly  sleeping  the  rest  of  the  day ; 

While  pussy  is  purring  contentedly  near, 

Devoid  of  all  care  and  unconscious  of  fear. 

But  enough  of  this  nonsense  !    I  fain  would  request 


252  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

That  thy  cousin  again  may  be  honour'd  and  blest 
By  receiving  thy  musical  Nag  as  a  guest : 
His  arrival  I'll  welcome  with  heartfelt  delight, 
And  gaze  on  his  beauties  from  morning  till  night. 
Dear  uncle  and  cousins  I  ne'er  can  forget, 
With  sweet  little  Georgie,  his  aunty,  and  Kate. 
Give  our  love  to  them  all,  and  yourself  must  receive 
My  warm  and  my  lasting  affection.     Believe, 
I  shall  ever  remain  as  I  now  am  to  thee, 
Your  dear  little  cousin,  and 

MARGARET  M.  D. 
Ballston,  1835. 


STANZAS. 

THOUGH  nought  but  life's  sunshine  has  spread  o'er  my  path, 
Though  no  real  distress  has  e'er  clouded  my  brow ; 

Though  the  storms  of  affliction  around  me  have  past, 

And  shed  o'er  me  nought  save  the  rainbow's  bright  glow ; 

Though  nursed  from  the  cradle  with  tenderest  care, 
Though  shelter'd  from  all  that  might  grieve  or  distress ; 

Though  life's  pathway  has  blush'd  with  the  fairest  of  flowers, 
And  my  heavenly  Father  has  ceased  not  to  bless ; 

Though  the  chillness  of  want  and  the  darkness  of  wo 
From  my  joyous  young  spirit  have  rapidly  fled  ; 

Though  the  presence  of  all  whom  I  cherish  and  love 
Has  not  fail'd  its  sweet  influence  around  me  to  shed ; 

Still,  still  there  are  moments  of  darkness  and  grief, 
Which  steal  o'er  my  soul  like  the  spirit  of  wo ; 

I  know  not  their  coming,  I  feel  not  their  cause, 
But  o'er  my  rapt  spirit  they  silently  flow. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  253 

I  feel  for  a  while  as  some  terrible  blow 

Had  deprived  me  of  comfort,  of  friends,  and  of  home  ; 
Then  depart  they  as  silent,  and  leave  my  freed  soul 

Again  in  the  bright  path  of  pleasure  to  roam. 

Like  clouds  in  the  sky  of  enjoyment  they  pass, 
And  shed  o'er  my  heart  a  sensation  of  sadness ; 

Like  clouds  do  they  glide  o'er  the  surface  of  light, 
And  leave  me  again  to  the  spirit  of  gladness. 

1835. 


VERSES  WRITTEN  WHEN  THIRTEEN  YEARS  OF  AGE. 

VERSIFICATION  FROM  OSSIAN. 

WHERE  the  stream  in  its  wildness  was  rushing  below, 
And  the  oak  in  its  greatness  was  bending  above, 

Fell  Cathba  the  brave  by  the  hand  of  his  foe, 
By  the  hand  of  Duchomar,  his  rival  in  love. 

Duchomar  repair'd  to  the  cave  of  the  wild, 

Where  dwelt  in  her  beauty  the  star  of  his  breast, 

Where  she  wandered  alone,  nature's  sensitive  child, 
Knowing  little  of  life  but  its  love  and  its  rest. 

"  Oh,  beautiful  daughter  of  Cormac  the  proud  ! 

Oh  Morna,  thou  fairest  that  earth  can  bestow  ! 
Why  dwellest  thou  here,  'neath  the  dark,  angry  cloud  ] 

Why  dwellest  thou  here  where  the  wild  waters  flow  ? 

"  The  old  oak  is  murmuring  aloud  in  the  blast, 
Which  ruffles  the  breast  of  the  far  distant  sea, 

The  storm  o'er  the  heavens  his  thick  veil  hath  cast, 
And  the  sky  in  its  sternness  is  frowning  on  thee ! 


254  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  But  thou  art  like  snow  on  the  black,  wither'd  heath, 
Thy  ringlets  are  soft  as  the  mist  of  the  night, 

When  it  winds  round  the  broad  hill  its  delicate  wreath, 
By  the  sun  at  its  parting  made  gorgeously  bright." 

"  Whence  comest  thou,  man  of  the  fierce,  rolling  eye  1" 
Said  the  beautiful  maid  of  the  dark  flowing  hair, 

"  Oh  proud  is  thy  bearing,  and  haughty  and  high, 

And  thy  brow,  there  is  darkness  and  gloominess  there. 

"  Perchance  thou  hast  heard  from  our  foeman  of  blood ; 

Doth  Swaran  appear  on  the  broad,  heaving  sea, 
Doth  he  pour  on  our  coast  like  the  deep  raging  flood  1 

What  tidings  from  Lochlin,  Duchomar,  for  me  1" 

"  No  tidings  from  Lochlin,  oh  Morna,  I  bring, 
I  come  from  the  chase  of  the  fleet-footed  deer ; 

My  arrows  have  sped  like  the  eagle's  swift  wing, 
And  the  scathless  have  fled  from  my  presence  for  fear. 

"  Three  deer  at  my  feet  in  the  death-pang  have  laid, — 
Fair  daughter  of  Cormac,  one  perish'd  for  thee ; 

As  my  soul  do  I  love  thee,  oh  white-handed  maid ! 
And  queen  of  my  heart  ever  more  shalt  thou  be !" 

"  Duchomar !"  the  maiden  with  firmness  replied, 
"  No  portion  of  love  do  I  cherish  for  thee ; 

For  thy  bosom  is  dark  with  its  passions  and  pride, 
And  fickle  thy  heart  as  the  wide-rolling  sea. 

"  But  Cathba !  thou  only  shall  Morna  adore, 
Thine  image  alone  this  fond  bosom  shall  fill ; 

Oh  bright  are  thy  locks  as  the  sunbeams  of  day, 
When  the  mists  of  the  valley  are  climbing  the  hill. 

"  Hast  thou  seen  him,  Duchomar,  young  Cathba  the  brave  1 
Hast  thou  seen  the  fair  chief  on  his  pathway  of  light  1 

The  daughter  of  Cormac  the  mighty  is  here 
To  welcome  her  love  when  he  comes  from  the  fight." 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  255 

"  Then  long  shalt  thou  tarry,  oh  Morna !"  he  cried, 
And  fiercely  and  sullenly  gazed  on  the  maid, 

"  Then  long  shalt  thou  tarry,  oh  Morna !  for  here 
Is  the  blood  of  thy  diief  on  Duchomar's  dark  blade. 

"  Cold,  cold  is  thy  hero,  and  slain  by  my  hand, 
His  tomb  will  I  rear  upon  Cromla's  dark  hills ; 

Oh  turn  on  Duchomar  thy  soft  beaming  eye, 

For  his  arm  is  like  lightning,  which  withers  and  kills." 

"  Has  he  fallen  in  death,  the  brave  offspring  of  Animl" 

[The  maiden  exclaim'd  in  the  accents  of  wo, 
"  The  first  in  the  chase,  and  the  foremost  in  battle, 
Oil  sad  is  my  bosom,  and  dark  was  the  blow  ! 

"  And  dark  is  Duchomar,  and  deadly  his  vengeance, 
He  hath  blasted  each  hope  which  was  bright  in  the  bud ; 

Fell  foe  unto  Morna,  oh  lend  me  thy  weapon, 
For  Cathba  I  loved,  and  I  still  love  his  blood." 

He  yielded  the  sword  to  her  mourning  and  sighs, — 

She  plunged  the  red  blade  in  his  fast-heaving  side ; 
And  he  lay  by  the  stream,  as  the  blasted  oak  lies, 

[Till  raising  his  hand  he  indignantly  cried, 
"  Daughter  of  blue-shielded  Cormac  !  thy  blow 

Hath  cut  off  my  youth  from  the  fame  I  love  best; 
My  glory  hath  fled  like  a  pale  wreath  of  snow, 
And  Morna !  thy  weapon  is  cold  in  my  breast. 

"  Oh  give  me  to  Morna,  the  maiden  of  beauty, 

Her  dreams  in  the  darkness  are  fraught  with  my  name, 

My  tomb  she  will  raise  in  the  caves  on  the  mountain, 
That  hunters  may  welcome  the  mark  of  my  fame. 

"  She  will  hang  o'er  my  grave  like  the  mists  of  the  morning, 
And  dwell  on  my  memory  with  fondness  and  pride, — 

But  my  bosom  is  cold,  and  the  lifeblood  is  ebbing, 
Oh  Morna,  draw  forth  the  cold  blade  from  my  side." 


256  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Slowly  and  sadly  she  came  at  his  bidding, 

And  drew  forth  the  sword  from  his  fast-bleeding  breast, 
But  he  plunged  the  red  steel  in  her  own  lovely  bosom, 

And  laid  her  fair  form  on  the  damp  earth  to  rest 

Her  tresses  dishevell'd  around  her  were  flowing, 

The  blood  gurgling  fast  from  the  wide-gaping  wound, 

And  the  eye  that  was  bright,  and  the  cheek  that  was  glowing, 
In  dimness  and  pallor  and  silence  were  bound. 

Oh  Morna !  be  thou  as  the  moon,  when  its  light 

Shines  forth  from  her  throne  on  the  light  fleecy  cloud, 

To  watch  o'er  the  grave  of  thy  lover  at  night, 
And  wrap  his  cold  tomb  in  thy  silvery  shroud. 

1836. 


TO  THE  MUSE,  AFTER  MY  BROTHER'S  DEATH. 

AH,  where  art  thou  wandering,  sweet  spirit  of  song, 
Who  once  bore  my  rapt  fancy  on  bright  wings  along  ] 
That  soaring  from  earth,  with  its  cares  and  its  pains 
It  might  bathe  in  the  light  of  thy  seraph-like  strains'? 

Ah,  whither  art  fled  in  thy  beauty  and  gladness? 

Why  leave  me  in  silence  thy  loss  to  bewail  ] 
Dost  thou  shrink  from  the  heart  that  is  tinctured  with  sadness, 

The  eye  that  is  dimm'd,  or  the  cheek  that  is  pale  1 

Since  last  waved  around  me  thy  pinions  of  light, 
The  chillness  of  sorrow  hath  breathed  o'er  my  home, 

For  one  joyful  young  spirit  hath  taken  its  flight, 
One  icy-cold  form  has  been  borne  to  the  tomb. 

Like  a  flow'ret  of  summer,  he  wither'd  and  died, 
In  the  springtime  of  beauty,  of  youth,  and  of  pride ; 
In  the  freshness  of  hope  he  was  borne  to  his  tomb, 
And  the  home  of  his  kindred  is  shadaw'd  with  gloom. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  257 

Then  return  to  my  bosom,  thou  wakener  of  joy, 

Oh  touch  with  thy  fingers  my  drooping  young  lyre  ! 

Awake  it  to  pleasures  time  ne'er  can  destroy, 
And  its  chords  witk  a  heavenly  calmness  inspire. 


1836. 


LINES 

ON    HEARING    SOME    PASSAGES    READ    FROM    MRS.    HEMANS' 
"  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN." 

OH,  pause  not  yet,  for  many  an  hour 

I'd  lend  a  raptured  ear, 
The  thrilling,  melting  sweetness 

Of  that  seraph  strain  to  hear. 

Dispel  not  yet  the  soften'd  joy 
Those  gentle  tones  impart, 
While  painting,  in  such  vivid  hues, 
.  The  worth  of  woman's  heart. 

* 

Priestess  of  song  !  could  we  but  feel 

The  value  of  thine  own, 
How  many  a  soul  would  bow  before 
Thy  spirit's  lofty  throne. 

How  many  now  elated 

With  the  muse's  faintest  smile, 
Would  turn  them  to  thy  radiant  shrine, 

And  worship  there  awhile. 

With  softest  touch  thy  magic  hand 

Awaked  the  sleeping  lyre, 
To  all  a  woman's  tenderness, 

And  all  a  poet's  fire, 


258  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  proudly  soar'd  thy  lofty  mind 
Each  earthly  thought  above, 

And  vainly  sought  thy  woman's  heart 
For  something  more  to  love. 

1836.  [Unfinished.] 


AN  APPEAL  FOR  THE  BLIND. 


THOUGH  thousands  pass  the  mourner  by, 
And  scorn  the  suppliant's  bended  knee, 

"  Hope  springs  exulting"  to  the  eye, 
When  sorrow  turns  its  glance  on  thee. 

For  soft  compassion's  slumbering  ray, 
And  pity's  melting  glance  is  there, 

To  chase  the  sufferer's  fears  away, 
And  soothe  to  calmness  wild  despair. 

Oh  fan  to  life  the  kindling  spark, 
Till  brightly  burns  its  radiant  flame, 

For  thou  art  fortune's  favour'd  child, 
And  I  would  plead  in  mercy's  name. 

Scan  the  dark  page  of  life,  and  say 
If  there  thy  searching  eye  can  find 

A  wo  more  keen,  a  fate  more  sad, 
Than  that  which  marks  the  helpless  blind. 

Launch'd  forth  on  life's  uncertain  path, 
Its  best  and  brightest  gift  denied, 

No  power  to  pluck  its  fragrant  flowers, 
Or  turn  its  poisonous  thorns  aside ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  259 

No  ray  to  pierce  the  gloom  within, 
And  chase  the  darkness  with  its  light ; 

No  radiant  morning  dawn  to  win 
His  spirit  from  the  shades  of  night. 

Nature,  whose  smile,  so  pure  and  fair, 

Casts  a  bright  glow  o'er  life's  dark  stream, 

Nature,  sweet  soother  of  our  care, 
Has  not  a  single  smile  for  him. 

When  pale  disease,  with  blighting  hand, 

Crushes  each  budding  hope  awhile, 
Our  eyes  can  rest  in  sweet  delight 

On  love's  fond  gaze,  or  friendship's  smile. 

Not  so  with  him — his  soul,  chain'd  down 

By  doubt,  and  loneliness,  and  care, 
Feels  but  misfortune's  chilling  frown, 

And  broods  in  darkness  and  despair. 

Favour'd  by  heaven !  oh  haste  thee  on, — 
Thy  blest  Redeemer  points  the  way, — 

Haste  o'er  the  spirit's  gloom  to  pour 
The  light  of  intellectual  day. 

Thou  canst  not  raise  their  drooping  lids, 
And  wake  them  to  the  noonday  sun ; 

Thou  canst  not  ope  what  God  hath  closed, 
Or  cancel  aught  His  hands  have  done ; 

But  oh !  there  is  a  world  within, 

More  bright,  more  beautiful  than  ours ; 

A  world  which,  nursed  by  culturing  hands, 
Will  blush  with  fairest,  sweetest  flowers. 

And  thou  canst  make  that  desert  mind 
Bloom  sweetly  as  the  blushing  rose ; 

Thou  canst  illume  that  rayless  void, 
Till  darkness  like  the  day-beam  glows. 


260  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Thou  canst  implant  the  brilliant  gem 
Of  thought,  in  each  benighted  soul, 

Till  back  from  radiance  so  divine 
The  clouds  of  ignorance  shall  roll. 

Thus  shalt  thou  shed  a  purer  ray 
O'er  each  beclouded  mind  within, 

Than  pours  the  glorious  orb  of  day 
On  this  dark  world  of  care  and  sin. 

Prize  you  a  self-approving  mind  1 
Then  lay  thine  offering  here  ; 

The  clouded  orbits  of  the  blind 
Shall  yield  a  grateful  tear. 

Would'st  thou  the  blessings  of  that  band 
Should  crowd  thy  path  below? 

That  hearts,  enlighten'd  by  thy  hand, 
With  gratitude  should  flow  ? 

And  would'st  thou  seek  the  matchless  love 
To  God's  own  children  given, 

A  conscience  calmly  resting  'neath 
The  fav'ring  smiles  of  Heaven? 

Then  speed  thee  on  in  mercy's  cause, 
And  teach  the  blind  to  see  ; 

"  Hope  springs  exulting"  in  the  eye 
That  sorrowing  turns  to  thee. 

And  warmest  blessings  on  thy  head, 
Full  many  a  voice  shall  call ; 

And  tears  upon  thy  memory  shed, 
Like  Hermon's  dew  shall  fall ! 

And  when  the  last  dread  day  has  come, 
Which  seals  thine  endless  doom  ; 

When  the  freed  soul  shall  seek  its  home, 
And  triumph  o'er  the  tomb ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  261 

When  lowly  bends  each  reverend  knee, 

And  bows  each  heart  in  prayer, 
A  band  of  spirits,  saved  by  thee 

Shall  plead  thy  virtues  there. 


1836. 


THE  SMILES  OF  NATURE. 

THERE'S  a  smile  above,  and  a  smile  below, 

In  the  clouds  that  roll,  and  the  waves  that  flow  : 

Is  the  heart  unchain'd  by  sorrow's  thrall, 

There's  a  smile  of  joy  and  of  peace  in  all ! 

There's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  waken'd  day, 

When  he  gilds  the  east  with  his  glowing  ray, 

And  a  smile  on  his  brow  when  he  sinks  to  rest, 

Like  the  saint  who  expires  on  his  Maker's  breast. 

There  are  pensive  smiles  on  the  evening  sky, 

Which  raise  the  thoughts  to  the  pure  and  high, 

Which  speak  to  the  soul  of  its  glad  release, 

And  tune  its  quivering  chords  to  peace. 

The  flow'rets  ope  with  the  rising  sun, 

And  wither  and  die  ere  his  race  is  run ; 

Yet  a  smile  is  shed  o'er  their  transient  bloom, 

Adorning  the  path  to  their  early  tomb. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  the  gorgeous  spring, 

When  she  spreads  o'er  the  valley  her  radiant  wing ; 

As  she  calms  the  wild  winds  with  her  fragrant  breath, 

And  decks  the  glad  earth  in  her  beautiful  wreath. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  rose,  though  'twill  cease  to  bloom ; 

There's  a  smile  on  the  stream,  though  the  storm  may  come ; 

There's  a  smile  in  the  sky,  though  the  clouds  may  roll, 

Like  sin  o'er  the  depths  of  the  human  soul ! 

Thus,  all  that  is  lovely  .is  form'd  for  decay, 

But  the  pure  beams  of  heaven  are  shed  o'er  the  way. 

There  are  varied  smiles  on  a  mortal's  brow, 

Which  speak  of  the  soul  from  its  depths  below ; 


262  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  they  too  vanish,  when  brightest  they  beam, 

And  bury  their  light  in  the  world's  dark  stream. 

For  the  heart  of  man  is  the  throne  of  guile, 

And  sin  can  shadow  each  mortal  smile  ; 

And  the  blossoms  of  light  which  are  planted  there, 

Are  weaken'd  by  passion,  or  wither'd  by  care. 

There's  a  haughty  smile  on  the  conqueror's  brow, 

As  the  nations  of  earth  at  his  footstool  bow ; 

But  that  smile  is  chill  as  the  frozen  stream 

Which  glitters  pale  in  the  moon's  cold  beam ; 

It  speaks  of  ambition,  of  pride,  and  of  sin, 

Which  rankle  and  swell  the  dark  bosom  within. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  brow  of  aspiring  man, 

As  he  pauses  the  works  of  his  hand  to  scan, 

And  gazes  far  up  to  that  gorgeous  height 

Which  is  guarded  by  danger,  and  terror,  and  night ; 

But  'tis  cold  as  the  bosom  from  whence  it  came, 

And  is  lost  in  the  splendours  of  grandeur  and  fame. 

There's  a  beaming  smile  upon  beauty's  brow, 

As  the  young  and  the  gay  at  her  altar  bow ; 

'Tis  brilliant,  'tis  dazzling,  'tis  passing  fair, 

But  the  heart  in  its  freshness  is  wanting  there. 

There's  a  sunny  smile  on  the  infant's  lip, 

As  he  pauses  the  cup  of  enjoyment  to  sip  ; 

But  a  moment  more  shall  have  hurried  by, 

And  that  smile  will  fade  from  his  clouded  eye ; 

Some  childish  sorrow,  or  childish  sin, 

Shall  cast  its  shade  o'er  the  depths  within. 

Then  where  shall  we  seek  for  a  perfect  smile, 

If  beauty  hath  sorrow,  and  youth  hath  guile  1 

If  the  clouds  of  pride  and  ambition  roll 

O'er  the  inmost  depths  of  the  deathless  soul  1 

Oh  Nature  !  the  soul  is  a  spark  divine, 

But  I  turn  from  its  light  for  a  smile  of  thine  ; 

The  soul  in  its  greatness  must  ever  endure, 

But  thou,  in  thy  freshness,  art  holy  and  pure  ! 

Oh,  give  me  the  beams  of  the  summer  sky, 

Which  gladden  the  bosom  and  rapture  the  eye ; 

Though  transient  the  radiance,  though  fleeting  the  smile, 

They  speak  not  of  sorrow,  they  breathe  not  of  guile! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  263 

But  light  up  the  tremulous  chords  of  the  soul, 

Its  virtues  to  heighten,  its  sins  to  control : 

For  the  soft  smiles  of  nature  around  us  are  cast, 

To  light,  with  their  Brilliance,  the  world's  dreary  waste. 

To  call  the  lone  heart  from  its  sadness  away, 

And  shed  o'er  its  darkness  a  magical  ray  ! 

When  oppress'd  with  the  cares  and  the  sorrows  of  life, 

The  spirit  turns  back  from  its  turmoil  and  strife, 

When  it  longs  to  be  happy,  and  sighs  to  be  free, 

Oh  Nature,  'tis  cheer'd  by  communion  with  thee. 

Though  the  waters  may  rise,  and  the  sky  be  o'ercast ; 

Though  rages  the  tempest,  and  whistles  the  blast ; 

Though  thy  brow  may  be  shaded  in  darkness  and  fear, 

He  can  read  there  a  lesson  to  solace  and  cheer. 

As  the  soft  rays  of  sunshine  succeed  to  thy  frown ; 

As  the  rainbow  encircles  thy  brows  like  a  crown ; 

As  the  tempest  rolls  off  which  had  reign'd  there  awhile, 

And  bursts  forth  in  radiance  the  light  of  thy  smile, 

So  gently  the  shadows  of  sorrow  depart, 

And  hope  dawns  again  on  the  desolate  heart, 

And  points  from  thy  glories  to  glories  more  pure, 

From  thy  fast-fading  beauties  to  charms  which  endure, 

And  leads  the  rapt  soul  from  its  sinful  abode, 

To  commune  for  awhile  with  its  Maker  and  God. 

Oh  Nature  !  what  art  thou  1 — a  mighty  lyre, 

Whose  strings  are  swept  by  an  angel  choir ; 

Whose  music,  attuned  by  a  hand  divine, 

Thrills  a  chord  in  each  bosom  responsive  to  thine, 

And  whose  gentler  strain,  as  it  softly  swells, 

Soothes  many  a  bosom  where  sadness  dwells ; 

While  the  joyous  and  happy,  the  youthful  and  gay, 

Pluck  the  flowers  from  thy  garland  and  speed  on  their  way. 

Oh,  give  me  the  beams  of  the  summer  sky, 

Which  gladden  the  bosom,  and  rapture  the  eye  ; 

Though  fleeting  the  radiance,  though  transient  the  smile, 

They  speak  not  of  sorrow,  they  breathe  not  of  guile, 

But  light  up  the  tremulous  chords  of  the  soul, 

Its  virtues  to  heighten,  its  sins  to  control. 

1836. 


264  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

ON  A  ROSE, 

RECEIVED  FROM  M18S  SEDGWICK. 

AND  thou  art  fading  too,  my  rose, 
Thy  healthful  bloom  is  fled, 

From  thy  pale  flower  the  leaves  unclose, 
And  bows  thy  pallid  head. 

I  knew  how  quickly  fades  away 
Each  brighter,  lovelier  thing, 

And  did  not  deem  that  thou  couldst  stay, 
Thou  fairest  rose  of  spring. 

But  I  have  watch'd  thy  varying  hue, 

As  fading  hour  by  hour, 
And  mourn'd  that  thou  must  perish  too, 

My  lovely,  cherish'd  flower. 

Oh,  'tis  a  mournful  thing  to  see 
How  all  that's  fair  must  die  ; 

How  death  will  pluck  the  sweetest  bud, 
On  his  cold  breast  to  lie. 

'Tis  sad  to  mark  his  icy  hand 

Destroy  our  all  that's  dear, 
In  silent,  shivering  awe  to  stand, 

And  know  his  footstep  near. 

Yet  'twere  unmeet  that  thou  shouldst  live, 
When  man  himself  must  die  ; 

That  death  should  cull  each  human  form, 
And  pass  the  flow'ret  by. 

Why  do  I  mourn  for  thee,  my  rose, 

When  graven  in  my  heart, 
I  read  a  deeper  sorrow  there 

Than  thou  couldst  e'er  hi'     rt. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  265 

For  one  who  came  from  heaven  awhile, 

To  bless  the  mourners  here; 
Their  joys  to  hallow  with  her  smile, 

Their  sorrow  with  her  tear ; 

Who  joined  to  all  the  charms  of  earth 

The  noblest  gifts  of  heaven ; 
To  whom  the  Muses,  at  her  birth, 

Their  sweetest  smiles  had  given ; 

Whose  eye  beam'd  forth  with  fancy's  ray, 

And  genius  pure  and  high ; 
Whose  very  soul  had  seem'd  to  bathe 

In  streams  of  melody, — 

Was  all  too  like  to  thee,  my  rose, 

As  fragile  and  as  fair ; 
For,  while  her  eye  most  brightly  beam'd, 

The  mark  of  death  was  there. 

The  cheek  which  once  so  sweetly  bloom'd, 

Grew  pallid  with  decay ; 
The  burning  fire  within  consumed 

Its  tenement  of  clay. 

Death,  as  if  fearing  to  destroy, 

Paused  o'er  her  couch  awhile ; 
She  gave  a  tear  for  those  she  loved, 

Then  met  him  with  a  smile. 

Oh,  who  may  tell  what  angel  bands 

Convey'd  that  soul  away  ; 
And  who  may  tell  what  tears  were  shed 

Above  that  lifeless  clay. 

They  laid  her  in  the  silent  grave, 

The  moist  earth  for  her  bed ! 
And  placed  the  rose  and  violet 

To  blossom  o'er  her  head  ! 
18 


266  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  though  unseen  by  mortal  eye, 

She  seem'd  not  to  depart, 
Her  memory  linger 'd  still  below 

In  every  kindred  heart ; 

As  if  her  pure,  unfetter'd  soul 

Return'd  to  earthly  things, 
And  spread  o'er  all  her  cherish'd  scenes 

The  shadow  of  her  wings. 

Still  thou  art  like  to  her,  my  rose, 

Though  bending  in  decay  ; 
The  tyrant  death  can  never  take 

Thy  fragrant  breath  away. 

Like  thee,  my  rose,  she  bloom'd  and  died, 
Like  thee,  her  life  was  brief, 

And  to  her  name  remembrance  clung, 
Like  perfume  to  thy  leaf 

But  when  the  torch  of  memory  burn'd 
With  fainter,  feebler  flame, 

The  pen  of  Sedgwick  spread  anew 
A  lustre  round  her  name. 

For  this  our  daily  gratitude 

In  raptures  shall  ascend ; 
For  this  a  sister's  blessings 

And  a  mother's  prayer  shall  blend. 

And  if  the  Lord  of  heaven  permits 

His  sainted  ones  to  know 
The  varied  scenes  of  joy  and  grief 

Which  mark  the  world  below ; 

Then  she  will  bend  her  angel  form, 
With  heavenly  raptures  fired, 

And  bless  the  hand  which  penn'd  the  tale, 
The  genius  which  inspired. 

1837. 


POETICAL  REMAIN'S.  267 


THE  CHURCH-GOING  BELL. 

How  sweet  is  the^sound  of  the  church-going  bell 

When  it  bursts  on  the  ear  with  its  full  rich  swell, 

So  slow  and  so  solemn  it  peals  through  the  air, 

It  seems  as  if  calling  the  soul  to  prepare 

To  meet  in  his  temple,  so  holy  and  pure, 

The  Saviour  whose  presence  shall  ever  endure ; 

To  unburthen  the  conscience — devoutly  to  kneel — 

To  pray  for  the  pardon  of  sins  which  we  feel ; 

Before  our  almighty  Preserver  to  bow, 

With  a  purified  soul,  and  a  heart  humbled  low. 

1837.  [Unfinished.] 


FRAGMENT. 

OH,  for  a  something  more  than  this, 

To  fill  the  void  within  my  breast, 
A  sweet  reality  of  bliss, 

A  something  bright  but  unexpress'd. 

My  spirit  longs  for  something  higher 
Than  life's  dull  stream  can  e'er  supply, 

Something  to  feed  this  inward  fire, 
This  spark,  which  never  more  can  die. 

I'd  dwell  with  all  that  nature  forms 

Of  wild  or  beautiful  or  gay, 
Bow,  when  she  clothes  the  heaven  with  storms, 

And  join  her  in  her  frolic  play. 

I'd  hold  companionship  with  all 

Of  pure,  or  noble,  or  divine, 
With  glowing  heart  adoring  fall, 

And  kneel  at  nature's  sylvan  shrine. 


268  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

My  soul  is  like  a  broken  lyre, 

Whose  loudest,  sweetest  chord  is  gone, 

A  note  half  trembling  on  the  wire, 
A  heart  that  wants  an  echoing  tone. 

Where  shall  I  find  this  shadowy  bliss, 
This  shapeless  phantom  of  my  mind, 

This  something  words  can  ne'er  express, 
So  vague,  so  faint,  so  undefined  ] 

Language  !  thou  never  canst  portray 
The  fancies  floating  o'er  my  soul, 

Thon  ne'er  canst  chase  the  clouds  away, 
Which  o'er  my  changing  visions  roll. 

1837. 


FRAGMENT. 

OH,  I  have  gazed  on  forms  of  light, 
Till  life  seem'd  ebbing  in  a  tear, 

Till  in  that  fleeting  space  of  sight, 
Were  merged  the  feelings  of  a  year. 

And  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  song, 
Till  my  full  heart  gush'd  wild  and  free, 

And  my  rapt  soul  would  float  along 
As  if  on  waves  of  melody. 

But  while  I  glow'd  at  beauty's  glance, 
I  long'd  to  feel  a  deeper  thrill, 

And  while  I  heard  that  dying  strain, 
I  sigh'd  for  something  sweeter  still. 

I  have  been  happy,  and  my  soul 

Free  from  each  sorrow,  care,  regret, 

Yet  ever  in  those  hours  of  bliss, 
I  long'd  to  find  them  happier  yet. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  269 

Oft  o'er  the  darkness  of  my  mind, 

Some  meteor  thought  has  glanced  at  will, 

'Twas  bright — but  ever  have  I  sigh'd 
To  find  a  fency  brighter  still. 

Why  are  these  restless,  vain  desires, 
Which  always  grasp  at  something  more 

To  feed  the  spirit's  hidden  fires, 

Which  burn  unseen,  unnoticed  soar  1 

Well  might  the  heathen  sage  have  known 
That  earth  must  fail  the  soul  to  bind, 

That  life,  and  life's  tame  joys  alone, 
Could  never  chain  the  ethereal  mind. 

1837. 


WRITTEN  WHEN  BETWEEN  FOURTEEN  AND  FIFTEEN. 
ON   RETURNING   TO    BALLSTON, 

AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF  A  LITTLE  BROTHER. 

YES  !  this  is  home  !  the  home  we  loved  before, 
The  dear  retreat  we  hope  to  leave  no  more  ! 
Since  first  we  mourn'd  thy  calm  enjoyments  fled, 
Two  weary  years  with  silent  steps  have  sped  ; 
And  ah  !  in  that  short  space  what  scenes  have  past ! 
Death  has  been  with  us  since  we  saw  thee  last ! 
Yes !  robed  in  gloom  he  came,  the  tyrant  death, 
To  blight  our  fairest  with  his  chilling  breath. 
He  stole  along  beneath  the  smiles  of  spring, 
When  youthful  hearts  to  life  most  fondly  cling ; 
The  loveliest  flowers  were  blushing  'neath  his  tread  ; 
He  stole  the  sweetest  of  them  all,  and  fled  ! 
In  vain,  my  brother,  now  we  look  for  thee, 
Thy  form  elastic,  and  thy  step  of  glee  ; 


270  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

In  vain  we  strive  our  thoughts  from  thee  to  win, 

Our  hearts  recoiling1  feel  the  void  within. 

Alas  !  alas  !  thou  dear  and  cherish'd  one, 

How  soon  on  earth  thy  tranquil  course  was  run  ! 

Like  some  bright  stream  that  pours  its  waves  to-day, 

Glides  gently  on,  and  vanishes  away  ! 

A  brief,  brief  time  has  pass'd  with  giant  stride, 

And  thou  hast  lived,  hast  suffer'd,  and  hast  died  ! 

Memory,  unmindful  of  the  lapse  between, 

Paints  forth  in  vivid  hues  that  closing  scene  ; 

The  more  we  gaze,  we  feel  its  truth  the  more, 

And  live  in  thought  those  painful  moments  o'er. 

We  see  his  form  upon  its  couch  of  pain, 

We  hear  his  soft  and  trembling  voice  again ; 

Grief  forcing  from  our  lips  the  shuddering  groan, 

And  sweet  composure  breathing  from  his  own. 

The  earth  was  clothed  in  spring's  enlivening  hue, 

The  faded  buds  were  bursting  forth  anew, 

The  birds  were  heard  in  sweet,  melodious  strain, 

And  Nature  woke  to  radiant  life  again, 

While  he,  too  fragile  for  this  world  of  strife, 

Prepared  to  blossom  in  a  holier  life. 

The  glowing  spring  of  heaven's  eternal  year 

Was  usher'd  in  by  all  that's  loveliest  here ; 

Earth,  robed  in  Nature's  fairest,  best  array, 

Led  on  his  fluttering  soul  to  purer  day. 

The  soft  winds  fann'd  him  where  his  couch  was  laid, 

On  his  hot  brow  the  cooling  breezes  play'd, 

And  in  his  hand  (fit  type  of  early  death,) 

Was  claspM  a  faded  flower,  a  wither'd  wreath. 

Hush'd  was  each  bursting  groan,  each  tumult  wild, 

Around  the  deathbed  of  that  darling  child  ; 

O'er  each  sad  heart  an  awful  trembling  crept ; 

E'en  grief,  o'erpower'd,  a  solemn  stillness  kept. 

His  soul,  beyond  the  grasp  of  care  and  strife, 

Stood  on  the  confines  of  a  deathless  life  ; 

His  gaze  was  fix'd  upon         * 

The  lapse  between  eternity  and  time; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  271 

His  eye  was  beaming  with  intenser  light, 

As  broke  new  glories  on  his  fading  sight. 

Oh,  who  may  tell  that  hour  of  thrilling  dread, 

That  midnight  vigil  b^  his  dying  bed  !     . 

When  his  young  spirit  left  its  shrine  of  clay, 

And  sped  through  worlds  unknown  its  pathless  way ; 

Methinks,  e'en  now,  I  see  his  speaking  face, 

Death  on  his  brow,  and  in  his  bosom  peace, 

When  soft  he  whisper'd,  while  the  accents  fell 

Like  the  soft  murmurings  of  the  passing  gale, 

While  his  cheek  glow'd  with  death's  intensest  bloom, 

"  Mother  !  dear  mother  !  the  last  hour  has  come  !" 

Yes  !  thy  last  hour  of  pain,  thou  darling  boy, 

The  opening  scene  to  endless  years  of  joy  ! 

Oh,  never  more,  till  memory's  sun  shall  set, 

Can  I  that  thrilling  scene  of  death  forget ! 

His  earnest  gaze,  his  bright  and  glowing  cheek 

Beaming  with  thoughts  his  tongue  no  more  could  speak ; 

His  soul  just  hastening  to  the  realms  on  high, 

While  all  earth's  love  was  kindling  in  his  eye. 

Alas  !  it  fades,  that  deep,  unearthly  glow, 

And  the  cold  drops  stand  quivering  on  his  brow. 

Death  has  o'ercome  !  'tis  nature's  closing  strife, 

The  last,  last  struggle  of  departing  life  ! 

List  to  that  sigh  !  the  poison'd  shaft  has  sped, 

And  his  young  spirit  to  its  home  hath  fled. 

The  silver  cord  is  broke,  dissolved  the  tie ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  how  all  that's  fair  must  die  ! 

Hark,  to  that  heavenly  strain,  so  loud,  so  clear, 

Rising  so  sweet  on  fancy's  listening  ear  ! 

Hark,  'tis  an  angel's  song,  a  voice  of  glee, 

A  welcome  to  the  soul,  unchain'd  and  free  ! 

On,  on  it  flows  in  ceaseless  tides  again, 

Till  the  rapt  spirit  echoes  to  the  strain, 

Till  on  the  wings  of  song  it  soars  away, 

To  track  its  kindred  soul  through  realms  of  day  ! 

Hark  to  that  lyre,  more  sweet  than  all  beside  ; 

Mother  !  'tis  hers  !  oh,  weep  not  that  she  died  ! 


272  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Hark  to  that  voice,  so  melting  and  so  clear, 
The  same,  my  father,  thou  wert  wont  to  hear  ! 
And  mark  that  train  of  infant  spirits  come 
To  lead  their  brother  to  his  glorious  home  ! 
All,  all  are  yours  !  and  all  shall  gather  there, 
To  lead  your  spirits  from  this  world  of  care ; 
Then  weep  no  more  ;  your  darling  son  is  blest, 
And  his  young  soul  has  enter'd  into  rest. 

1837. 


TWILIGHT. 

TWILIGHT  !  sweet  hour  of  peace, 

Now  art  thou  stealing  on ; 

Cease  from  thy  tumult,  thought !  and  fancy,  cease ! 
Day  and  its  cares  have  gone  ! 
Mysterious  hour, 
Thy  magic  power 
Steals  o'er  my  heart  like  music's  softest  tone. 

The  golden  sunset  hues 

Are  fading  in  the  west ; 

The  gorgeous  clouds  their  brighter  radiance  lose, 
Folded  on  evening's  breast. 

So  doth  each  wayward  thought, 
From  fancy's  altar  caught, 
Fade  like  thy  tints,  and  muse  itself  to  rest 

Cold  must  that  bosom  be, 

Which  never  felt  thy  power, 
Which  never  thrill'd  with  tender  melody 
At  this  bewitching  hour  ; 
When  nature's  gentle  art 
Enchain's  the  pensive  heart ; 

When  the  breeze  sinks  to  rest,  and  shuts  the  fragrant 
flower. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  273 

It  is  the  hour  for  pensive  thought, 

For  memory  of  the  past, 
For  sadden'd  joy^for  chasten'd  hope 
Of  brighter  scenes  at  last ; 
The  soul  should  raise 
Its  hymn  of  praise, 
That  calm  so  sweet  on  life's  dull  stream  is  cast. 

Wearied  with  care,  how  sweet  to  hail 

Thy  shadowy,  calm  repose, 
When  all  is  silent  but  the  whispering  gale 
Which  greets  the  sleeping  rose; 
When,  as  thy  shadows  blend, 
The  trembling  thoughts  ascend, 
And  borne  aloft,  the  gates  of  heaven  unclose. 

Forth  from  the  warm  recess 

The  chain'd  affections  flow, 
And  peace,  and  love,  and  tranquil  happiness 
Their  mingled  joys  bestow ; 
Charm'd  by  thy  mystic  spell, 
The  purer  feelings  swell, 
The  nobler  powers  revive,  expand,  and  glow. 

1837. 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  A  BROTHER. 

BROTHER  !  I  need  no  pencilPd  form 

To  bring  back  glowing  thoughts  of  thee  ; 

Love's  pencil,  bathed  in  hues  of  light, 
Shall  trace  the  page  of  memory. 

There  shall  they  live,  each  look  or  smile, 
Each  gentler  word,  or  look,  or  tone ; 

Fancy  shall  view  love's  work  the  while, 
And  add  rich  colouring  of  her  own. 


274  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

How  throbb'd  my  heart  with  sweet  delight, 
When  hope  beheld  thy  near  return  ! 

Nor  thought  that  day  precedes  the  night, 
And  hearts  the  happiest  soonest  mourn. 

Why  knew  I  not  that  joy  like  mine 
Was  never,  never  form'd  to  last  1 

That  pleasures  only  live  to  die, 
And,  ere  we  feel  them,  ours  are  past  1 

Oh !  turn  not  from  my  strain  away, 
Nor  scorn  it,  simple  though  it  be  ! 

It  is  a  sister's  sorrowing  lay, 
A  token  of  her  love  for  thee. 

Oh !  that  a  prophet's  eye  were  mine, 
To  read  the  shrouded  future  o'er  ! 

Oh!  that  the  glimmering  lamp  of  time 
Could  cast  its  mystic  rays  before  ! 

Then  would  I  trace  thy  devious  way 
Along  the  chequer'd  path  of  life ; 

Discern  each  pure,  reviving  ray, 

And  mark  each  changing  scene  of  strife. 

Oh !  if  a  sister's  partial  hand 

Could  weave  the  web  of  fate  for  thee, 
Pleasure  should  wave  her  mystic  wand, 
.  And  all  thy  life  be  harmony. 

Peace,  foolish  heart !  a  wiser  Power 

Thy  hand  shall  guide,  thy  footsteps  lead ; 

Each  bitter  grief,  each  rapturous  hour 
By  His  unerring  will  decreed. 

Farewell,  my  brother  !  and  believe 
Through  every  scene  of  weal  or  wo, 

A  sister's  heart  with  thine  shall  grieve, 
With  thine  in  rapturous  joy  shall  glow. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  275 

Each  morn  and  eve  a  mother's  prayer 
With  mine  shall  seek  the  courts  above : 

A  mother's  blessings  rest  on  thee, 
Embalm'd  urall  a  mother's  love. 


1837. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  ACCOUNTS  OF  THE  DEATH  OF 
MARTYRS. 

SPEAK  not  of  life,  I  could  not  bear 
A  life  of  foul  disgrace  to  share  ! 
Wealth,  fame  or  honour's  fleeting  breath, 
What  are  they  to  this  glorious  death  1 
Think  ye  a  kingdom  back  could  win 
My  spirit  to  this  world  of  sin! 
Think  ye  a  few  more  years  of  strife 
Could  draw  me  from  eternal  life  1 — 
Dark  is  the  path  to  Canaan's  shore, 
But  Jesus  trod  that  path  before  ! 
He  hath  illumed  the  grave  for  me, — 
My  Saviour !  I  will  die  for  thee  ! 
Yes !  lead  me  forth ;  in  faith  secure, 
The  keenest  anguish  I'll  endure ! 
And  while  my  body  feeds  the  flame, 
My  soul  its  bright  reward  shall  claim ! 
Soon  shall  these  earthly  bonds  decay, 
This  trembling  frame  return  to  clay, 
And  earth,  enrobed  in  clouds  of  night, 
Shall  fade  for  ever  from  my  sight. 
But  who  would  mourn  a  home  like  this, 
WThen  gather'd  to  that  home  of  bliss  1 
But  there  is  many  a  tender  tie 
Would  shake  my  firm  resolve  to  die ; 


276  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Cords  which  entwine  my  longing  heart, 

Affection's  death  alone  can  part. 

Jesus,  forgive  each  faltering  thought, 

Which  weaker,  earthlier  love  hath  taught ; 

Forgive  the  tears  which  struggling  flow 

To  view  a  mother's,  sister's  wo. 

Forgive  this  grief,  though  weak  it  be, 

Nor  deem  my  spirit  turn'd  from  thee  ! 

Raise  my  unworthy  soul  above 

The  tempting  wiles  of  earthly  love ! 

Soon  shall  each  torturing  pang  be  o'er, 

And  tears  like  these  shall  flow  no  more ; 

And  those  I  love  so  deeply  here 

Shall  meet  me  in  yon  heavenly  sphere. 

Love  !  what  have  I  compared  to  thine  ? 

Love,  pure,  ineffable,  divine  ! 

Love  which  could  bring  a  God  below 

To  taste  a  mortal's  cup  of  wo ; 

To  weep  in  agony,  to  sigh, 

To  bear  a  nation's  scorn — to  die  ! 

Oh,  love !  undying,  godlike,  free, 

All  else  is  swallow'd  up  in  thee. 

Soon  shall  I  also  soar  above, 

To  dwell  with  thee,  for  "  God  is  love." 

Yes !  pile  the  blazing  fagots  high, 

Till  the  bright  flames  salute  the  sky ! 

From  each  devouring  pile  you  raise, 

Shall  soar  a  hymn  of  love  and  praise, 

And  the  firm  stake  you  rear  for  me, 

The  gate  to  endless  life  shall  be. 

But  oh,  ye  frail,  deluded  train, 

How  will  ye  meet  your  Lord  again  ? 

"  Father !  their  crimes  in  mercy  view ! 

Forgive,  they  know  not  what  they  do !" 

1837. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  277 


ON  READING  COWPER'S  POEMS. 

t^f 

CHARM'D  with  thy  verse,  oh  bard,  I  fain  would  raise 
A  feeble  tribute  teeming  with  thy  praise ; 
For  thee,  oh  Cowper,  touch  the  trembling"  string1, 
And  breathe  the  thoughts  the  muse  inspires  to  sing. 
For  thee,  whose  soul  delighted  oft  to  roam 
O'er  the  pure  realms  of  thine  eternal  home ; 
Who,  scorning  folly's  smile  or  fancy's  dream, 
Made  truth  thy  guide  and  piety  thy  theme ; 
Who  loved  to  soar  where  heaven's  own  glories  shine, 
And  tuned  the  lyre  to  harmonies  divine ! 
Whose  strains,  when  pour'd  by  faith's  directing  voice, 
Made  doubt  recede,  and  certainty  rejoice. 
Whose  lofty  verse,  by  sterner  justice  led, 
Made  unbelievers  trembling,  shrink  with  dread. 
Oh  that  each  bard,  from  earthborn  passions  free, 
Might  tread  the  path  thus  nobly  mark'd  by  thee, 
And  teaching  song  to  plead  in  virtue's  cause, 
Might  win  like  thee,  a  grateful  world's  applause. 
Knowing  from  whence  thy  matchless  talents  came, 
Thou  fanned'st  to  purer  life  the  kindling  flame, 
And  breathing  all  thy  thoughts  in  numbers  sweet, 
Laid  them  adoring  at  thy  Maker's  feet. 
Thus  teaching  man  that  all  his  nobler  lays 
Should  rise  o'erflowing  with  that  Maker's  praise ; 
That  his  enraptured  muse  should  firmly  own 
The  claims  of  truth,  and  faith,  and  love  alone ! 
That  he,  who  feels  within  the  fire  divine, 
Should  nurse  the  flame  to  grace  God's  holy  shrine. 
Let  those  who  bask  in  passion's  burning  ray, 
Who  own  no  rule  but  fancy's  changeful  sway, 
Who  quench  their  burning  thirst  in  folly's  stream, 
And  waste  their  genius  on  each  grosser  theme, 
Let  them  turn  back  on  life's  tumultuous  sea, 
And  humbly  gazing,  learn  this  truth  from  thee ; 


278  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

That  virtue's  hand  the  poet's  lamp  must  trim, 
And  its  clear  light,  unwavering,  point  to  Him, 
Or  all  its  brilliance  shall  have  glow'd  in  vain, 
And  hours  misspent  shall  win  him  years  of  pain. 

1837. 


STANZAS. 

OH,  who  may  tell  the  joy,  the  bliss, 
Which  o'er  the  realm  of  fancy  streams, 

The  varied  scenes  of  light  and  life, 

Which  deck  the  poet's  world  of  dreams  1 

The  ransom'd  soul  may  speed  its  flight, 
To  live  and  glow  in  realms  above ; 

May  bathe  in  floods  of  endless  light, 
And  live  eternal  years  of  love. 

But  oh,  what  voice  hath  e'er  reveal'd 
The  glories  of  that  blest  abode, 

Save  the  faint  whisperings  of  the  soul, 
The  mystic  monitors  of  God ! 

Thus  may  the  poet's  spirit  dance 

And  revel  in  his  world  of  joy, 
May  form  creations  at  a  glance, 

And  myriads  at  a  word  destroy. 

But  mortal  ear  can  never  hear 
The  music  of  that  seraph  band ; 

Nought  save  the  faint,  unearthly  tones 
Just  wafted  from  that  spirit-land. 

None  but  the  poet's  soul  can  know 
The  wild  and  wondrous  beauty  there ; 

The  streams  of  light,  which  ever  flow, 
The  ever  music-breathing  air. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  279 

His  spirit  seeks  this  heaven  awhile, 
Entranced  in  glowing  dreams  of  bliss  ; 

Lives  in  the  muses'  hallow'd  smile, 
And  bathes  in  founts  of  happiness. 

Then,  when  he  sinks  to  earth  again, 

His  hand  awakes  the  trembling  lyre, 
He  strives  to  breathe  a  burning  strain, 

Kindled  at  fancy's  altar-fire. 

But  oh,  how  frail  the  trembling  notes, 
Compared  *  * 


1837. 


FRAGMENT. 

'TWAS  the  song  of  the  evening  spirit !  it  stole, 

Like  a  stream  of  delight  o'er  the  listening  soul, 

And  the  passions  of  earth — joy,  or  sorrow,  or  pain — 

Were  absorb'd  in  the  notes  of  that  heavenly  strain. 

My  heart  seem'd  to  pause  as  the  spirit  came  nigh, 

And,  array'd  in  its  garment  of  music,  pass'd  by ! 

"  I  am  coming,  oh  earth !  I  am  hasting  away, 

With  my  star-spangled  crown  and  my  mantle  of  gray ; 

I  have  come  from  my  bower  in  the  regions  of  light, 

To  recline  on  the  breast  of  my  parent,  night ! 

To  soften  the  gloom  in  her  mournful  eye, 

And  guide  her  steps  through  the  darken'd  sky ! 

I  come  to  the  earth  in  my  mystic  array ; 

Rest,  rest  from  the  toils  and  the  cares  of  the  day ! 

I  will  lull  each  discordant  emotion  to  sleep, 

As  I  hush  the  wild  waves  of  the  turbulent  deep, 

And  my  watch  o'er  the  couch  of  their  slumbers  I  keep. 

The  streams  murmur  '  peace,'  as  I  steal  through  the  sky, 

And  hush'd  are  the  winds,  which  swept  fitfully  by ; 


280  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  bee  nestles  down  on  the  breast  of  the  rose, 
And  the  wild  birds  of  summer  are  seeking  repose. 
All  nature  salutes  me,  so  solemn,  so  fair, 
And  a  glad  shout  of  welcome  is  borne  on  the  air. 
Now,  now  is  the  moment,  and  here  is  the  way 
For  the  spirit  to  mount  from  its  temple  of  clay, 
And  soar  on  my  pinions  to  regions  sublime, 
Beyond  the  broad  flight  of  the  giant-wing'd  Time." 

1837.  [Unfinished.] 


IMITATION  OF  A  SCOTCH  BALLAD. 

SWEETS  of  the  glowing  spring 

Float  on  the  air ; 
Gaily  the  birdies  sing, 

Banish  in'  care. 
Softly  the  burnies  flow, 
Gently  the  breezes  blow, 
I  to  my  Jeanie,  oh, 

Gaily  repair. 

Fair  as  the  simmer  flower 

Sipp'd  by  the  bee ; 
Blithe  as  the  weenie  birds 

Singin'  their  glee ; 
Fresh  as  the  drappin'  dew, 
Pure  as  the  gowan's  hue, 
Ever  gay  an'  ever  true, 

Is  Jeanie  to  me. 

Bright  as  the  gowden  beam 

Gilding  the  morn ; 
Sweet  as  the  simmer's  wind 

Wavin'  the  corn ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  281 

Sic  is  my  Jeanie,  oh, 
Stainless  as  winter  snow, 
Given  to  the  warld  below 
Life  to  adorn. 

Joy  to  thee,  bonnie  lass, 

Gently  an'  braw, 
Thou,  'mang  the  fairest, 

Art  fairer  than  a' ; 
Still  mayst  thou  gladsome  be, 
Ever  from  sorrow  free, 
Blessings  upon  thine  e'e 

Numberless  fa'. 

Grief  may  bedim  the  while 

Joy's  glowing  flame ; 
Sorrow  may  steal  the  smile 

From  its  sweet  hame ; 
But  the  sweet  flow'ret,  love, 
Native  of  heaven  above, 
In  the  dark  storm  shall  prove 

Ever  the  same. 


ERE  THOU  DIDST  FORM. 

ERE  thou  didst  form  this  teeming  earth, 
Or  gave  these  mighty  mountains  birth ; 
Ere  mortal  press'd  this  yielding  sod  ; 
From  everlasting  thou  art  God  ! 

Thousands  of  years,  when  past  away, 
Seem,  in  thy  sight,  one  fleeting  day ; 
Ages,  where  man  may  live  and  die, 
An  hour  to  thy  eternity ! 
19 


282  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Years  roll  on  with  a  rolling  stream, 
They  fade  like  shadows  in  a  dream  ! 
Like  grass,  which  springs  at  morning  light, 
And  withers  ere  the  close  of  night ! 

For  thou  art  mighty  in  thine  ire — 
Thy  wrath  consumes  like  flaming  fire ; 
And,  spread  before  thy  searching  eye, 
Our  sins  in  dreadful  order  lie. 

1837.  [Unfinished.] 


A  FRAGMENT. 

I  SEE  her  seraph  form,  her  flowing  hair, 

Her  brow  and  cheek  so  exquisitely  fair ; 

Her  smiling  lips,  her  dark  eyes'  radiant  beam — 

A  dream  1 — this  is  not,  cannot  be  a  dream  ! 

They  tell  me  'tis  some  wild  and  phrensied  thought, 

Some  glowing  spark  from  fancy's  altar  caught ; 

Some  glowing  spirit,  fancied  and  unknown, 

Which  reign's  supreme  in  reason's  vanquish'd  throne. 

1837. 


FRAGMENT  OF  THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 

THUS  thought  I,  while  in  pensive  mood, 
Beneath  a  frowning  cliff  I  stood, 
And  mark'd  the  autumn  sun  decline 
Above  the  broad  and  heaving  Rhine  ! 
Oh,  'twas  a  rich  and  gorgeous  sight, 
But  all  too  solemn  to  bs  bright. 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

A  saddening  hue  was  o'er  it  cast, 
Which  seem'd  to  tell  of  glories  past, 
Of  summer  ripen'd  to  decay, 
Of  ancient  splendours  past  away ; 
The  parting  monarch's  dying  glow 
Fell  on  the  restless  waves  below, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  dyed 
With  hues  from  heaven  the  sparkling  tide. 
The  fleeting  ray  an  instant  beam'd, 
O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  rock  it  stream'd, 
Till  the  dark,  time-destroying  cliff 
Seem'd  glowing,  melting  into  life, 
And  the  broad  scene,  so  sad  and  wild, 
Beneath  its  gentle  influence  smiled, 
As  care  lifts  up  its  sorrowing  eye, 
When  hope  has  cast  a  sunbeam  by ; 
Then  swiftly  fading,  glided  o'er, 
And  left  it  lonely  as  before. 
The  distant  hills  of  sombre  blue, 
Tinged  with  that  rich  and  varying  hue, 
Now  darker  and  more  mingled  grew, 
While  nearer  rose  so  wild  and  bold 
The  rugged  cliffs  of  Odenwald  ; 
The  Rhine,  enrobed  in  shadows  gray, 

Roll'd  on  its  giant  path, 
Lashing  the  rocks  which  barr'd  its  way, 
Now  curling  graceful,  as  in  play, 

Now  roaring,  as  in  wrath. 
The  forests  murmur'd,  bow'd,  and  slept, 
But  on  the  mighty  river  swept. 
As  in  impatient  haste  to  gain 
The  gentler  waters  of  the  Maine, 
Which  flow'd  along  in  stately  pride, 
To  mingle  with  its  parent  tide  ; 
But  where  the  kindred  waters  meet, 

A  rugged  cliff  there  stood  ; 
It  rose  above  the  eddying  waves, 
With  hanging  rocks  and  yawning  caves, 

The  guardian  of  the  flood  ; 


284  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Fit  haunt  it  seem'd  for  giant  forms 

Of  wild,  unearthly  mould, 
The  spirits  of  the  winds  and  storms, 

Their  mystic  rites  to  hold. 
And  o'er  its  rugged  brow  was  spread 

The  forest  moss  and  flower, 
And,  'mid  a  grove  of  solemn  firs, 

Arose  a  ruin'd  tower. 
The  ivied  walls  and  turrets  gray 
Seem'd  vainly  struggling  with  decay, 
Still  frowning  o'er  the  restless  tide, 
An  emblem  of  unyielding  pride  ! 
All,  all  was  desolate  and  lone  ; — 
Beside  its  walls  of  crumbling  stone, 
A  giant  beech  its  arms  had  thrown, 

And  ivy  on  its  threshold  grew  ; 
The  shouts  of  mirth,  the  cries  of  strife, 
The  varied  sounds  of  bustling  life, 

Its  walls  no  longer  knew  ; 
The  moaning  winds  rush'd  fitful  by, 
Blent  with  the  owlet's  dismal  cry, 
And  every  sad  and  mournful  blast 
Seem'd  sadly  wailing  for  the  past ! 
Scarce  could  the  wandering  eye  discern 
In  that  rude  pile,  so  dark  and  stern, 
The  remnants  of  its  lofty  wall, 
The  area  of  its  spacious  hall, 
Or  trace  in  masses  rude  and  steep, 
What  once  was  barbacan  and  keep. 


"  Roll  back  thou  tide  of  time  !'*  and  bring 

The  faded  visions  of  the  past, 
And  o'er  the  bard's  enchanted  string 

Thy  veil  of  shadowy  softness  cast  1 
Fancy,  unfold  thy  swiftest  wing  ! 

Thou  dreary  present,  be  no  more ! 
And  I  will  tune  my  heart  to  sing 

In  simple  strains  the  days  of  yore  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  285 

These  ruin'd  walls  again  shall  rise 

In  all  their  ancient  pride  and  power, 
Again  the  gorgeous  banner  float 

In  triumphjrom  the  stately  tower  ! 
The  moss,  the  thorn,  the  poisonous  weed 

Shall  vanish  from  the  cheerful  hearth, 
And  the  rude  hall  again  resound 

With  shouts  of  revelry  and  mirth ! 
Again  beside  that  ruin'd  gate 

The  guard  shall  pace  his  weary  round, 
Again  the  warder's  midnight  cry 

Within  its  massive  turrets  sound ; 
Again  the  bright  convivial  band 

Shall  close  around  its  joyous  hearth, 
Again  the  vaulted  halls  return 

The  shouts  of  revelry  and  mirth. 
Oh,  I  could  tell  of  thrilling  scenes 

Enacted  in  that  lone  retreat ; 
How  its  paved  courts  have  echoed  back 

The  clanking  tread  of  armed  feet ; 
How  savage  chiefs  and  knights  of  old, 
With  forms  and  souls  of  iron  mould, 
Have  gather'd  round  this  mountain  hold, 

And  form'd  their  councils  here, 
Then  rush'd  upon  the  field  below, 

With  clashing  sword  and  spear. 
And  I  could  tell  of  princely  dames, 

Of  powerful  lords  and  highborn  peers, 
Who  dream'd  not  that  their  honour'd  names 

Could  perish  in  the  lapse  of  years, 
Or  only  live  at  times  to  aid 

The  wandering  minstrel's  random  song ; 
An  old  traditionary  tale 

To  float  on  memory's  tide  along. 
And  I  could  sing  full  many  a  strain 

Would  call  the  lifeblood  from  the  cheek, 
What  fancy's  eye  would  shrink  to  see, 

And  boldest  tongue  would  fear  to  speak. 


286  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  I  will  leave  to  nobler  hands 

The  framing  of  those  mystic  lays, 
And  only  weave  a  simple  tale 

Of  later  and  of  gentler  days, 
When  daring  souls  of  daring  deeds 

Gave  place  to  peaceful  knights  and  squires, 
And  warlike  gatherings  on  the  field 

To  feastings  round  their  evening  fires; 
When  nought  remain'd  of  olden  times, 

Of  strife  and  rivalry  and  blood, 
Save  where  some  sterner  barons  held 

The  remnants  of  an  ancient  feud. 

TTwas  morning,  and  the  shades  of  night 
Roll'd  backward  from  her  brow  of  light. 
As  with  majestic  step  she  came, 
With  dewy  locks  and  eyes  of  flame, 
Her  wreath  of  dancing  light  to  twine 
On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine. 
The  scene  beneath  her  spread  was  rife 
With  sights  and  sounds  of  bustling  life, 
Of  joyful  shouts,  and  glad  halloo, 
And  quick  steps  running  to  and  fro. 
The  castle  walls,  so  dark  and  gray, 
Tinged  with  the  morning's  cheerful  ray, 
Seem'd  revelling  their  gloorn  away, 
While  from  the  court  came,  long  and  loud, 
The  shouts  of  an  assembled  crowd, 
And  on  the  mountain  echoes  borne, 
Peal'd  out  the  huntsman's  mellow  horn. 
The  clanking  drawbridge  fell  across 
The  sparkling  waters  of  the  fosse, 
And  servants  hurried  here  and  there, 
W7ith  bustling  and  important  air  ; 
Oft  from  the  forest  would  appear 
A  group  that  bore  the  slaughtered  deer, 
And  distant  shouts  would  faintly  tell, 
As  some  new  victim  bleeding  felL 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  287 

Light  skiffs  were  floating  down  the  Rhine, 
Laden  with  casks  of  choicest  wine, 
And  oarsmen  bore  the  precious  freight 
For  entrance  fc>  the  postern  gate. 
Oft  on  the  noisy  tide  along 
The  minstrel  pour'd  his  careless  song, 
And  all  without  was  bustling  glee. 
***** 
Within,  the  castle  hall  was  graced 
With  oaken  tables,  closely  placed, 
In  preparation  for  a  feast. 
The  ancient  armour  on  the  wall 
Was  cleansed,  and  gilt,  and  burnish'd  all ; 
And  helm,  and  casque,  and  corslet  shone 
Like  mirrors  in  the  morning  sun  ; 
Oh,  could  the  warlike  forms  which  wore 
Those  garments  grim  in  days  of  yore, 
Come  to  their  mountain  home  once  more, 
How  would  they  frown  on  scene  so  gay, 
And  sigh  for  spirits  past  away ! 

Beside  the  hearthstone  of  his  hall, 
The  lord  and  master  of  them  all, 
The  owner  of  this  proud  domain 
Stood,  gazing  on  his  menial  train. 
His  ample  robes  were  rich  and  gay, 
His  locks  were  slightly  tinged  with  gray, 
His  eye,  beneath  its  darker  shroud, 
Glanced,  like  a  sunbeam  from  a  cloud. 
Hope  realized  and  love's  warm  glow 
Seem'd  mingling  o'er  his  furrow'd  brow, 
And  smiles  of  pleasure  told  in  part 
The  inward  gladness  of  his  heart. 
But  ever  and  anon  there  stole 
Some  softer  feeling  o'er  his  soul, 
And  something  like  a  tear  would  roll 
Unnoticed  down  his  furrow'd  cheek, — 
The  child  of  thoughts  he  could  not  speak. 


288  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Why  rings  the  old  castle  with  gladness  this  morn  ? 

Why  echoes  the  wood  with  the  blithe  hunter's  horn  ? 

Why  standeth  their  lord  with  his  train  at  his  side, 

And  his  eye  beaming  lightly  with  gratified  pride  1 

This  day  it  shall  close  o'er  his  doubts  and  his  fears, 

It  shall  witness  the  realized  wishes  of  years, 

And  his  name  shall  be  join'd,  by  the  dearest  of  ties, 

To  the  only  one  worthy  so  brilliant  a  prize, 

Whose  fathers  of  old  were  his  father's  allies. 

Why  stealeth  the  tear-drop  so  sad  to  his  eye  ? 

Why  bursts  from  his  bosom  the  half-smother'd  sigh  1 

Alas,  for  that  father  !  this  day  he  must  part 

From  the  pride  of  his  household,  the  joy  of  his  heart ; 

No  more  may  he  gaze  on  his  beautiful  child, 

Whose  step  ever  bounded,  whose  lip  ever  smiled  ; 

Who  cast  such  a  charm  o'er  his  wild  mountain  life 

As  the  sunbeam  may  throw  o'er  the  dark-frowning  cliff. 

Now  read  ye  the  cause  of  the  joyful  array  ? 

'Tis  to  welcome  the  lord  of  this  festival  day  ; 

For  he  comes,  with  his  glittering  train  by  his  side, 

To  claim  of  her  father  his  beautiful  bride. 


1837. 


ELEGY  UPON  LEO,  AN  OLD  HOUSE-DOG. 

THOU  poor  old  dog !  too  long  affection's  tongue 
Hath  left  thy  merits  and  thy  death  unsung ; 
Too  long  the  muse  hath  sought  for  themes  of  fame, 
And  left  untold  thy  well-remember'd  name; 
And  though  that  name  hath  lived  on  memory's  leaf, 
Has  touch'd  for  thee  no  thrilling  chords  of  grief. 
Thou  dear  old  dog !  thou  joy  of  childish  years ! 
Here  let  me  shed  for  thee  my  heartfelt  tears ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  289 

let  me  turn  from  life's  cold  cares  aside, 
And  weep  that  thou,  my  faithful  friend,  hast  died. 
Oh  that  no  tears  less  pure  might  e'er  be  shed, 
Than  these  which  mourn  a  loved  companion  dead ! 
This  is  a  world  where  faithful  hearts  are  few, 
Where  love  too  oft  is  vain,  too  oft  untrue ; 
And  when  some  cherish'd  form  to  earth  is  borne, 
O'er  fond  affection's  sever'd  chain  we  mourn ; 
Thus  I  for  thee,  that  one  more  friend  hath  gone, 
Who,  though  a  dog,  could  love  for  love  alone. 
Thou  dear  old  friend  !  on  memory's  starlit  tide, 
Link'd  with  a  sister's  name,  thy  name  shall  glide  ; 
And  when  for  her  our  tears  flow  fast  and  free, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  a  ling'ring  sigh  for  thee  ; 
For  thee,  that  sister's  dearest,  earliest  pet, 
Whom,  even  when  dying,  she  remember'd  yet. 
Thou  wast  her  playmate  in  each  childish  hour, 
When  her  light  footsteps  sprang  from  flower  to  flower ; 
When  not  a  cloud  on  life's  fair  surface  lay, 
And  joys  alternate  chased  the  hours  away  ; 
When  her  young  heart  beat  high  with  infant  glee, 
And  fondly  sought  to  share  those  joys  with  thee. 
And  when  youth's  star  arose  on  childhood's  morn, 
And  loftier  thoughts  on  time's  dark  wing  were  borne ; 
When  hope  look'd  forward  with  exulting  eye, 
And  fear,  the  coward,  still  crouch'd  trembling  nigh ; 
When  long  had  pass'd  those  hours  of  infant  glee, 
Still,  still  she  loved,  and  still  would  sport  with  thee, 

1837.  [Unfinished.] 


MORNING. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful  a  scene  is  this  ! 
When  nature,  waking  from  her  silent  sleep, 
Bursts  forth  in  light,  and  harmony,  and  joy  I 


290  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

When  earth,  and  sky,  and  air  are  glowing  all 

With  gaiety  and  life,  and  pensive  shades 

Of  morning  loveliness  are  cast  around  ! 

The  purple  clouds,  so  streak'd  with  crimson  light, 

Bespeak  the  coming  of  majestic  day ; 

Mark  how  the  crimson  grows  more  crimson  still, 

While  ever  and  anon  a  golden  beam 

Seems  darting  out  its  radiance  ! 

Herald  of  day  !  where  is  that  mighty  form 

Which  clothes  you  all  in  splendour,  and  around 

Your  colourless,  pale  forms  spreads  the  bright  hues 

Of  heaven?     He  cometh  from  his  gorgeous  couch, 

And  gilds  the  bosom  of  the  glowing  east. 

1837. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  SHE  HERSELF  BEGAN  TO  FEAR  THAT  HER 
DISEASE  WAS  PAST  REMEDY. 

I  ONCE  thought  life  was  beautiful, 

I  once  thought  life  was  fair, 
Nor  deem'd  that  all  its  light  could  fade 

And  leave  but  darkness  there. 

But  now  I  know  it  could  not  last — 

The  fairy  dream  has  fled  ! 
Though  thirteen  summers  scarce  have  past 

Above  this  youthful  head. 

Yes,  life — 'twas  all  a  dream — but  now 

I  see  thee  as  thou  art ; 
I  see  how  slight  a  thing  can  shade 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  291 

I  see  that  all  thy  brightest  hours, 

Unmark'd,  have  pass'd  away; 
And  now  I  feel  how  sweet  they  were, 

I  cannot  bj4  them  stay. 

In  childish  love  or  childish  play 

My  happiest  hours  were  spent, 
While  scarce  my  infant  tongue  could  say 

What  joy  or  pleasure  meant. 

And  now,  when  my  young  heart  looks  up, 

Life's  gayest  smiles  to  meet; 
Now,  when  in  youth  her  brightest  charms 

Would  seem  so  doubly  sweet  ; 

Now  fade  the  dreams  which,  bound  my  soul 

As  with  the  chains  of  truth  ! 
Oh  that  those  dreams  had  stay'd  awhile, 

To  vanish  with  my  youth  ! 

Oh  !  once  did  hope  look  sweetly  down, 

To  check  each  rising  sigh  ; 
But  disappointment's  iron  frown 

Has  dimm'd  her  sparkling  eye. 

And  once  I  loved  a  brother  too, 

Our  youngest  and  our  best, 
But  death's  unerring  arrow  sped, 

And  laid  him  down  to  rest. 


But  now  I  know  those  hours  of  peace 
Were  never  form'd  to  last  ; 

That  those  fair  days  of  guileless  joy 
Are  past  —  for  ever  past  ! 


January,  1837. 


292  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


TO  MY  OLD  HOME  AT  PLATTSBURGH. 

THAT  dear  old  home,  where  pass'd  my  childhood's  years, 

Where  fond  affection  wiped  my  infant  tears; 

Where  first  I  learn'd  from  whence  my  blessing's  came, 

And  lisp'd,  in  faltering  tones,  a  mother's  name. 

That  cherish'd  home,  where  memory  fondly  clings, 

Where  eager  fancy  spreads  her  soaring  wings ; 

Around  whose  scenes  my  thoughts  delight  to  stray, 

And  pass  the  hours  in  pleasing  dreams  away, 

Oh !  shall  I  ne'er  behold  thy  waves  again, 

My  native  lake,  my  beautiful  Champlain  1 

Shall  I  no  more  above  thy  ripples  bend, 

In  sweet  communion  with  my  childhood's  friend  1 

Shall  I  no  more  behold  thy  rolling  wave, 

The  patriot's  cradle  and  the  warrior's  grave  1 

Thy  banks  illumined  by  the  sun's  last  glow, 

Thine  islet's  mirror'd  in  the  waves  below  1 

Back,  back,  thou  present— robsd  in  shadows  lie  ! 

And  rise  the  past  before  my  raptured  eye ! 

Fancy  shall  gild  the  frowning  lapse  between, 

And  memory's  hand  shall  paint  the  glowing  scene : 

And  I  shall  view  my  much-loved  home  again, 

My  native  village  and  my  sweet  Champlain, 

With  former  friends  retrace  my  footsteps  o'er, 

And  muse  delighted  on  thy  verdant  shore. 

Alas !  the  vision  fades,  the  dream  is  past ; 

Dissolved  the  spell  by  sportive  fancy  cast ! 

Why,  why  should  thus  our  brightest  dreams  depart, 

And  scenes  illusive  cheat  the  sorrowing  heart  ] 

Where'er  through  future  life  my  footsteps  roam, 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  spot  like  thee,  my  home ! 

With  all  my  joys  the  thoughts  of  thee  shall  blend, 

And  join'd  with  thee  shall  rise  my  childhood's  friend  ! 

1837. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  293 

FAME. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

4> 

OH  Fame  !  thou  trumpeter  of  dead  men's  deeds ! 
Thou  idol  of  the  heart,  thou  empty  flatterer, 
That,  like  the  heathen  of  the  Nile,  embalmest 
Those  that  thou  deign'st  to  love,  and  ever  hiding 
Their  vices  and  their  foibles  with  a  veil 
Of  soft  concealment,  doth  exalt  them  high 
Above  the  common  crowd,  crown'd  with  thy  might, 
That  future  years  may  copy  and  admire. 
Thou  bright,  alluring  dream !  thou  dazzling  star ! 
Where  shall  we  find  thee  1     Thou  art  call'd 
Fickle  and  vain,  and  worthless  of  pursuit, 
Yet        ***** 

1838. 


ON  MY  MOTHER'S  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

YES,  mother,  fifty  years  have  fled, 
With  rapid  footsteps  o'er  thy  head  ; 
Have  past  with  all  their  motley  train, 
And  left  thee  on  thy  couch  of  pain  ! 
How  many  smiles,  and  sighs,  and  tears, 
How  many  hopes,  and  doubts,  and  fears, 
Have  vanish'd  with  that  lapse  of  years  ! 
Though  past,  those  hours  of  pain  and  grief 
Have  left  their  trace  on  memory's  leaf; 
Have  stamp'd  their  footprints  on  the  heart, 
In  lines  which  never  can  depart ; 
Their  influence  on  the  mind  must  be 
As  endless  as  eternity. 
Years,  ages,  to  oblivion  roll, 
Their  memory  forms  the  deathless  soul ; 
They  leave  their  impress  as  they  go, 
And  shape  the  mind  for  joy  or  wo ! 


294  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Yes,  mother,  fifty  years  have  past, 
And  brought  thee  to  their  close  at  last. 
Oh  that  we  all  could  gaze,  like  thee, 
Back  on  that  dark  and  tideless  ^ea, 
And  'mid  its  varied  records  find 
A  heart  at  ease  with  all  mankind, 
A  firm  and  self-approving  mind  ! 
Grief,  that  had  broken  hearts  less  fine, 
Hath  only  served  to  strengthen  thine  ; 
Time,  that  doth  chill  the  fancy's  play, 
Hath  kindled  thine  with  purer  ray; 
And  stern  disease,  whose  icy  dart 
Hath  power  to  chill  the  shrinking  heart, 
Has  left  thine  warm  with  love  and  truth, 
As  in  the  halcyon  days  of  youth. 
Oh  turn  not  from  the  meed  of  praise 
A  daughter's  willing  justice  pays; 
But  greet  with  smiles  of  love  again 
This  tribute  of  a  daughter's  pen. 

1838. 


THE  STORM  HATH  PASSED  BY. 

THE  storm  hath  pass'd  by,  like  an  angry  cloud 
Which  sweeps  o'er  the  brow  of  the  azure  heaven ; 

The  sun  and  the  earth  to  its  sway  hath  bow'd, 
And  each  radiant  beam  from  the  scene  been  driven. 

All  hail  to  the  smile  of  the  cloudless  sky ! 

All  hail  to  the  sun  as  he  rides  on  high  ! 

All  hail  to  the  heavens'  ethereal  blue, 

And  to  nature,  when  deck'd  in  her  own  lovely  hue  ! 

It  hath  pass'd  !  the  storm,  like  a  giant  form, 

Which  summons  the  winds  from  their  tempest  cave ; 
Which  opens  a  grave  in  each  ocean  wave, 

And  wraps  the  world  in  its  shroud  of  gloom. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  295 

Oh!  welcome  the  smile  of  the  gladden'd  earth ! 
And  welcome  the  voice  of  the  wood-bird's  mirth ! 
And  welcome  these  varying  hues  which  delight, 
Like  dawn  at  the  ctose  of  a  wearisome  night. 

The  clouds  have  pass'd,  with  the  shadows  they  cast, 
And  hush'd  is  the  sound  of  the  wind-god's  power, 

And  his  deep,  wild  blast,  as  the  tempest  pass'd, 
Which  rang  on  the  ear  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Oh !  welcome  the  soft,  balmy  zephyrs  of  spring ! 
And  welcome  the  perfumes  they  silently  bring ! 
And  the  rosy-tinged  cloudlets  that  gracefully  glide 
O'er  the  fair  brow  of  heaven  in  beauty  and  pride ! 

It  hath  fled  in  its  might,  the  dark  spirit  of  night, 
Which  cast  such  a  shade  o'er  the  light  of  the  soul ; 

It  hath  fled  and  died,  while  the  sunset  beam 

From  its  surface  triumphantly  backward  shall  roll. 

Oh  !  welcome  the  smiles  of  a  gladden'd  heart ! 
And  welcome  the  joy  which  those  smiles  impart ! 
And  welcome  the  light  of  that  sparkling  eye 
Which  tells  that  the  storm  in  its  dread  hath  pass'd  by ! 

Ballston,  1838. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  YOUNG  ROBIN. 

DESPITE  the  curling  lip,  the  smile  of  scorn, 
Thine  early  fate,  oh  !  hapless  bird,  we  mourn ; 
Too  soon  withdrawn  thy  scanty  store  of  breath, 
Too  soon  thy  sprightly  carols  hush'd  in  death  ! 
Here  let  us  lay  thee  on  thy  mother's  breast, 
Where  no  rude  step  shall  come,  no  cares  molest, 
No  cruel  puss  disturb  thy  silent  rest. 

Saratoga,  1838. 


29t5  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


TO  A  MOONBEAM. 

AH,  whither  art  straying,  thou  spirit  of  light, 
From  thy  home  in  the  boundless  sky  1 

Why  lookest  thou  down  from  the  empire  of  night, 
With  that  silent  and  sorrowful  eye  ] 

Thou  art  resting  here  on  the  autumn  leaf, 
Where  it  fell  from  its  throne  of  pride  ; 

But  oh,  what  pictures  of  joy  or  grief, 
What  scenes  thou  art  viewing  beside  ! 

Thou  art  glancing  down  on  the  ocean  waves, 

As  they  proudly  heave  and  swell ; 
Thou  art  piercing  deep  in  its  coral  caves, 

Where  the  green-hair'd  sea-nymphs  dwell  ! 

Thou  art  pouring  thy  beams  on  Italia's  shore, 
As  though  it  were  sweet  to  be  there  ; 

Thou  art  lighting  the  prince  to  his  stately  couch, 
And  the  monk  to  his  midnight  prayer. 

Thou  art  casting  a  fretwork  of  silver  rays 

Over  ruin,  and  palace,  and  tower ; 
Thou  art  gilding  the  temples  of  former  days, 

In  this  holy  and  beautiful  hour. 

Thou  art  silently  roaming  through  forest  and  glade, 

Where  mortal  foot  never  hath  trod  ; 
Thou  art  lighting  the  grave  where  the  dust  is  laid, 

While  the  spirit  hath  gone  to  its  God  ! 

Thou  art  looking  on  those  I  love  !  oh,  wake 
In  their  hearts  some  remembrance  of  me, 

And  gaze  on  them  thus,  till  their  bosoms  partake 
Of  the  love  I  am  breathing  to  thee. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  297 

And  perchance  thou  art  casting  this  mystic  spell 

On  the  beautiful  land  of  the  blest, 
Where  the  dear  ones  of  earth  have  departed  to  dwell, 

Where  the  weariphave  fled  to  their  rest. 

Oh  yes  !  with  that  soft  and  ethereal  beam, 

Thou  hast  look'd  on  the  mansions  of  bliss, 
And  some  spirit,  perchance,  of  that  glorified  world 

Hath  breathed  thee  a  message  to  this. 

• 

'Tis  a  mission  of  love,  for  no  threatening  shade 

Can  be  blent  with  thy  spirit-like  hues, 
And  thy  ray  thrills  the  heart,  as  love  only  can  thrill, 

And  while  raising  it,  melts  and  subdues. 

And  it  whispers  compassion  ;  for  lo,  on  thy  brow 

Is  the  sadness  of  angels  enshrined, 
And  a  misty  veil,  as  of  purified  tears, 

Round  thy  beautiful  form  is  entwined. 

Hail,  beam  of  the  blessed  !  my  heart 

Has  drunk  deep  of  thy  magical  power, 
And  each  thought  and  each  feeling  seems  bathed 

In  the  light  of  this  exquisite  hour  ! 

Sweet  ray,  I  have  proved  thee  so  fair 

In  this  dark  world  of  mourning  and  sin, 
May  I  hail  thee  more  bright  in  that  pure  region,  where 

Nor  sorrow  nor  death  enter  in. 

1838. 


EVENING. 

O'ER  the  broad  vault  of  heaven,  so  calmly  bright, 
Twilight  has  gently  drawn  her  veil  of  gray, 
And  tinged  with  sombre  hue  the  golden  clouds, 
Fast  fading  into  nothing  :  o'er  the  expanse 
20 


298  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Are  swiftly  stealing  hues,  which  mildly  blend 

And  shadow  o'er  the  pure  transparence 

Of  the  azure  heaven.     Now  is  night  array'd 

In  all  her  solemn  livery,  and  one  by  one 

Appear  the  sparkling  gems  which  deck  her  robe. 

Each  glittering  star  shines  brighter  than  its  wont, 

As  though  some  brilliant  festival  were  held, 

Some  joyful  meeting  in  the  courts  above. 

Now  mark  yon  grouo  of  amber-tinted  clouds, 

Shrouding  the  silvery  form  of  Luna ; 

Their  melting  tints  vanish  away,  and  then 

The  pale,  cold  moon  springs  up  unshackled 

In  her  vast  domain.     Fair  empress  of  the  sky  ! 

Chaste  queen  !  thy  hallow'd  beauty  can  impart 

A  soflen'd  radiance  to  each  sombre  cloud 

Of  melancholy  night,  and,  like  a  noble  mind, 

Immersed  in  seas  of  darkness,  thou  canst  cast 

A  portion  of  thy  brilliant,  mellow'd  softness, 

Around  the  deepening  gloom.     While  viewing  thee 

A  sweet  and  pensive  calm  o'erspreads  my  soul, 

And,  conjured  by  thy  gentle  melting  rays, 

Unerring  memory  hastens  to  my  aid  ; 

With  her,  I  view  again  my  own  dear  home, 

My  native  village,  'neath  thy  cloudless  sky 

Serenely  sleeping  :  'tis  as  fair  a  picture 

Of  unsullied  peace  as  ever  nature  drew. 

Thy  rays  are  dancing  on  the  gentle  river, 

In  one  unbroken  stream  of  molten  silver, 

And  marking  in  the  glassy  Saranac 

Thy  graceful  outline,  while  the  fairy  isles 

Which  on  its  bosom  rest,  are  slumbering 

In  thy  light,  while  the  fair  branches  bending 

O'er  thy  wave,  turn  their  green  leaves  above, 

And  bathe  in  one  celestial  flood  of  glory. 

There,  on  its  banks,  I  view  the  dear  old  home, 

That  ever  loved  and  blooming  theatre, 

Where  those  I  most  revere  have  borne  their  parts, 

Amid  its  changing  scenes.     Before  the  threshold 

Tower  the  lofty  trees,  and  each  high  branch 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  299 

Is  gently  rocking  in  the  summer  breeze, 
And  sending  forth  a  low,  sweet  murmur, 
Like  the  soft  breathings  of  a  seraph's  harp. 
Around  its  hum!51e  porch  entwine  the  vine, 
While  the  sweetbriar  and  the  blushing  rose 
Now  hang  their  heads  in  slumber,  and  the  grass 
And  fragrant  clover  scent  the  loaded  air. 
Oh,  my  loved  home,  how  gladly  would  I  rove 
Amid  thy  soft  retreats,  and  from  decay  % 

Protect  thy  mouldering  mansion,  tend  thy  flowers, 
Prune  the  wild  boughs,  and  there  in  solitude 
Listless  remain,  unknowing  and  unknown — 
Oh  no,  not  quite  alone,  for  memory, 
And  hope,  and  fond  delight  shall  mingle  there. 

1838.  [Unfinished.] 


A  POETICAL  LETTER  TO  HENRIETTA. 

ONCE  more,  Henrietta,  I  open  your  sheet 

To  glance  at  its  contents  so  playful  and  sweet, 

To  admire  the  flow  of  its  easy  strain, 

And  pen  you  an  answer  in  nonsense  again. 

Perchance  you  may  turn  from  my  page  away, 

And  with  scornful  lip  and  expression  say, 

"  I  think  she  might  better  have  spent  her  time, 

Than  in  stringing  such  masses  of  jingling  rhyme;" 

And  perhaps  I  might, — I  admit  the  blame, 

But  like  others,  continue  my  fault  the  same. 

However,  I  think  such  a  deacon  as  you, 

May  need  the  refreshment  of  nonsense  too ; 

Thaf  a  creature  so  sober  as  you  are,  my  friend, 

Her  ear  to  the  whisperings  of  folly  may  lend. 


300  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Never  mind — 'tis  a  fancy  has  cross'd  my  brain, 

Right  or  wrong,  good  or  evil,  I'll  finish  my  strain. 

I  wish  you,  my  dear  Henrietta,  could  know 

How  much  I  am  grieved  that  I  now  cannot  go, 

That  our  dreams  of  enjoyment  have  vanish'd  in  smoke, 

And  the  castles  we  builded  on  vapour  are  broke ; 

But  such  are  the  chances  of  life, — it  is  fit 

That  with  stoical  fortitude  we  should  submit 

Am  I  not  philosophic  ] — A  fortnight  passed  by 

With  its  fretting  and  grieving,  its  tear  and  its  sigh  ; 

Then — a  month,  peopled  well  with  regrettings  by  me, 

And — behold  me  submissive  as  mortal  can  be  I 

But  jesting  aside — 'tis  a  very  sad  thing 

To  be  torn  from  hope's  anchor,  where  fondly  we  cling. 

I  too  had  been  cherishing  feelings  as  vain, 

Nursing  hopes  as  delusive,  as  sweet,  in  my  brain ; 

I  had  waited  in  fancy  your  loved  form  to  see, 

With  a  heart  just  as  happy  as  happy  could  be ; 

Had  met  you,  embraced  you,  and  welcomed  you  here, 

When  lo !  the  bright  dream  dissolved  in  a  tear  ! 

Like  the  gay,  gorgeous  bubble  which  floats  for  awhile, 

But  departs  ere  you  welcome  its  hues  with  a  smile. 

You  were  wishing  for  wings, — I  enclose  you  a  pair, 

Which  I  hope  you  will  use  with  all  possible  care, 

For  they  were  not  prepared  in  a  mortal  mould, 

But  were  form'd  by  a  fairy  in  purple  and  gold ! 

While  riding  one  day  by  the  green-wood  side, 

This  fairy  in  beautiful  garments  I  spied ; 

Her  mantle  with  dew-drops  was  spangled  o'er — 

She  had  fairies  behind  her  and  fairies  before, 

And  many  and  gay  were  the  jewels  she  wore; 

But  the  wings  which  she  raised  to  her  delicate  brow 

Were  the  purest  of  azure  arid  white  as  the  snow  1 

I  bow'd  at  the  foot  of  the  fairy  throne, 

And  begg'd  of  her  beautiful  wings  like  her  own. 

I  sued  for  the  favour  in  friendship's  name ; 

She  assented,  and  smiling,  admitted  the  claim. 

All  sparkling  and  pure  as  the  evening  star, 

I  gather'd  the  wings  from  the  fairy's  bower, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  301 

And  came  home  exulting1,  impatient  to  send 

The  gift  in  its  freshness  and  glow  to  my  friend. 

Elated  with  pride,  I  exposed  them  to  view, 

But  the  touch  of  a  mortal  had  clouded  their  hue  ! 

So  marvel  no  more  at  their  dimness — believe 

That  the  very  same  wings  are  the  wings  you  receive. 

Should  my  story  too  wild  and  too  fanciful  seem, 

Oh !  call  it  not  fiction,  but  name  it — a  dream. 

I  am  reading  "  Josephus,"  a  famous  old  Jew, 

Whose  name  is,  I  doubt  not,  familiar  to  you. 

He  begins  with  the  world,  and  proceeds  to  relate 

How  the  Jews  from  a  nothing  grew  prosperous  and  great ; 

How  Jerusalem  reigned  as  the  Queen  of  the  East, 

Till  her  sacred  religion  was  scorn'd  and  oppress'd ; 

Then  murder,  and  rapine,  and  famine  ensued, 

Till  the  fields  of  Judea  were  streaming  with  blood. 

How  I  wish  you  were  reading  it  with  me,  my  friend ; 

Your  presence  a  charm  to  each  sentence  would  lend. 

Your  father's  return,  you  remark,  is  the  time 

To  send  you  a  budget  of  love  and  of  rhyme  ; 

The  love  be  assured  you  will  always  possess, 

And  you'll  have  rhyme  enough  when  you  once  have  read  this. 

So  you  see  what  that  love  has  induced  me  to  do, 

With  it  maybe  a.  fear  of  your  scolding  too  ! — 

It  is  evening — the  close  of  a  beautiful  day, 

And  the  last  rays  of  sunset  are  fading  away  ; 

Till  nothing  remains  but  a  faint  rosy  hue, 

Just  mingling  in  with  a  fainter  blue. 

The  shadows  of  twilight  are  closing  around, 

Not  a  murmur  is  heard  but  the  cricket's  sound, 

And  pensive  thoughts  o'er  my  heart-strings  creep 

As  the  "  unvoiced"  breezes  around  me  sweep. 

'Tis  a  tranquil  hour,  and  I  lazily  lie, 

Gazing  up  at  my  ease  in  the  delicate  sky, 

With  the  sombre  light  on  my  dim  page  playing, 

And  my  pen  through  its  numberless  labyrinths  straying. 

How  gentle  the  spell  of  this  exquisite  hour  ! 

How  soothing,  how  sweet  its  mysterious  power  ! 


302  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

It  steals  o'er  my  heart,  like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake, 

Each  half-buried  accent  of  music  to  wake. 

The  kitten  beside  me  hath  fled  from  its  play, 

And  close  in  my  bosom  is  nestling  away ; 

And  the  trembling-  leaf,  and  the  bending  flower, 

And  the  insect  millions  acknowledge  its  power. 

How  the  fancy  will  fly  from  the  present,  and  roam 

O'er  each  corner  of  earth  'neath  heaven's  high  dome  ! 

Perchance,  like  myself,  you  may  cloud-gazing  be ; 

Perchance,  my  sweet  friend,  you  are  thinking  of  me, 

And  this  scene,  like  a  beautiful  image  of  rest, 

Has  awaked  the  same  delicate  chords  in  your  breast ; 

And  perchance — how  provoking  ! — that  twinkling  lamp-light 

Hath  dissolved  with  its  brilliance  my  dreams  of  delight, 

Hath  deepen'd  to  blackness  the  mantle  of  gray, 

And  chased  all  my  beautiful  visions  away. 

So  it  is — they  have  fled — and  again  I  descend 

To  converse  upon  every-day  themes  with  my  friend  ; 

But  the  end  of  my  paper  convinces  me  still 

That  I  soon  must  release  tliee,  my  trusty  goosequill ; 

Though  my  breast  and  my  head  are  yet  aching  to  write, 

I  must  bid  you,  dear  Hetty,  a  loving  good  night. 

If  your  ears  are  not  tired  of  the  jingling  of  rhyme, 

I  will  finish  my  musical  letter  next  time  ; 

In  the  meanwhile,  believe  me  sincerely  to  be 

Your  affectionate  scribbler, 

MARGARET  M.  D. 
Ballston,  1838. 


LINES 

ON  SEEING  SOME  FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  TOMB  OF  VIRGIL. 

HAVE  these  gray  relics,  crumbling  into  dust, 
Once  rested  'neath  Italia's  burning  sky  1 

Has  this  cold  remnant  of  what  once  was  stone, 
Reflected  back  her  warm  cerulean  dye  1 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  303 

Have  these  white  fragments  rested  o'er  the  sod 

Hallow'd  by  Virgil's  ever-sacred  clay  1 
And  have  they  mingled  with  the  grass-grown  mound 

Which  o'er  the  classic  hero's  bosom  lay  1 

Perhaps  the  crumbling  stones  beside  me  now 
Fell  from  the  mouldering  marble  at  his  head — 

The  icy  tomb  which  hides  his  noble  brow, 
For  ever  hallow'd  by  the  mighty  dead. 

In  fancy  o'er  Italians  fields  I  roam, 

In  fancy  view  the  poet's  lowly  grave, 
Round  which,  as  I  in  silent  sorrow  bend, 

The  flowering  myrtle  and  the  cypress  wave. 

1838.  [Unfinished.] 


A  SHORT  SKETCH 

OF    THE    MOST    IMPORTANT    IDEAS    CONTAINED    IN    COUSIN'S 
"  INTRODUCTION    TO    THE   HISTORY    OF   PHILOSOPHY." 

ACCORDING  to  Cousin,  there  are  three  elements  of  con 
sciousness,  three  first  ideas  of  the  infinite,  the  finite  and 
their  relations  succeeding  each  other  in  the  above  order. 
He  believes,  that  as  the  history  of  an  individual  such  is 
the  history  of  mankind  in  general ;  that  as  there  are 
three  fundamental  ideas  there  must  be  three  epochs  of 
the  world  to  develope  those  ideas.  As  the  first  idea  is 
that  of  the  infinite,  the  first  age  of  the  world  will  express 
this  idea  in  its  laws,  its  arts,  its  religion,  and  its  phi 
losophy:  this  will  predominate.  When  fully  developed, 
the  idea  of  the  finite  will  succeed ;  action,  variety,  and 


304  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

liberty  will  take  the  place  of  slavery  and  immobility; 
man  will  begin  to  find  himself.  All  the  elements  of  his 
nature  will  be  brought  into  action,  although  still  subjected 
to  the  predominating  principle.  When  this  is  exhausted, 
in  its  turn  the  idea  of  the  relations  between  the  finite  and 
infinite  will  come ;  man  will  join  these  two  great  princi 
ples ;  every  element  will  assume  its  proper  station  with 
out  asserting  undue  authority  over  the  others;  man  will 
at  once  generalize  and  particularize ;  and  as  this  is  the 
highest  developcment  of  the  ideas  of  humanity,  this  epoch 
will  be  the  last.  After  giving  this  expansive  view  of  man 
and  his  destination,  he  proceeds  to  show,  that  different 
climates  and  countries  are  destined  for  the  developement 
of  different  ideas  ;  that  the  idea  of  the  infinite  must  neces 
sarily  prevail  in  a  large  continent  surrounded  by  vast 
seas,  traversed  by  inaccessible  mountains,  and  divided  by 
immense  deserts,  with  a  burning  and  enervating  climate, 
where  every  thing  leads  to  and  expresses  the  idea  of  the 
vast,  the  absolute,  the  infinite :  such  a  country  is  Asia. 
On  the  contrary,  the  idea  of  the  finite  will  occupy  a 
smaller  country,  intersected  by  rivers  affording  every 
facility  of  inland  communication  and  commerce,  sur 
rounded  by  small  seas,  inviting  the  inhabitants  to  inter 
course  with  neighbouring  nations,  and  filled  with  beau 
tiful  and  diversified  scenery,  all  bearing  the  impress  of 
the  finite,  urging  to  action  and  enterprise,  and  devoid  of 
that  solemn  and  sombre  unity  of  expression  which  pre 
vailed  in  its  parent  epoch  :  such  a  country  is  Greece. 
That  position  of  the  world  destined  for  the  developement 
of  the  last  and  most  perfect  epoch,  must  unite  the  two 
great  external  features  of  the  former  countries,  as  it  is  to 
assist  in  expressing  the  two  great  ideas  in  perfect  unison 
with  each  other.  It  must  combine  the  sublime  with  the 
beautiful,  every  advantage  of  internal  commerce  and 
high  civilization  with  a  manifest  appearance  of  magni- 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  305 

tude  and  duration  ;  it  must  possess  a  perfect  and  minute 
individuality  with  a  great  and  striking  general  character; 
a  vast  continent  surrounded. with  vast  oceans,  containing 
mighty  rivers  and  inland  seas,  broad  prairies,  and  long 
ranges  of  mountains,  together  with  fertile  valleys  and 
streams,  and  all  the  minor  qualities  of  a  rich  and  mag 
nificent  country,  containing  facilities  for  the  minutest 
internal  improvements,  guided  and  governed  by  a  lofty 
and  abstract  spirit  of  generalization — thus  uniting  the 
relative  and  the  absolute,  the  finite  and  the  infinite:  such 
a  country  is  America.  He  then  proceeds  to  speak  of 
war,  its  causes,  and  its  effects.  He  considers  it  not 
only  beneficial  but  necessary.  War  is  a  combat  of  ideas. 
Underneath  the  great  and  predominant  idea  of  an  epoch 
there  exist  minor  elements  in  a  nation,  as  in  an  indivi 
dual  :  one  people  expresses  one  element,  one  idea;  another 
seizes  upon  and  developes  a  second  :  these  truths  elevate 
themselves  against  each  other  and  combat — hence  war. 
When  one  of  these  ideas  is  exhausted  it  is  opposed  and 
superseded  by  a  newer  and  better  one — hence  conquest. 
One  idea  and  one  nation  make  room  for  another  idea 
and  another  nation ;  one  epoch  is  destroyed  and  another 
arises.  Mark  the  benefits  of  war  :  had  it  never  existed 
there  had  been  but  one  era  of  the  world,  and  humanity 
could  never  have  progressed.  He  then  proceeds  to  justify 
conquests.  He  considers  that  the  event  proves  the  right ; 
that  when  a  newer  and  nobler  spirit  arises  against  an 
exhausted  one,  that  spirit  must  conquer,  and  ought  to 
conquer.  He  does  not  believe  in  absolute  error ;  he  be 
lieves  every  error  is  a  part  of  truth,  and  only  becomes 
error  when  considered  alone  and  exclusive  of  all  other 
truth,  and  raised  to  an  undeserved  superiority  among  the 
elements  of  humanity. 

1838.  [Unfinished.] 


306  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

BRIEF  NOTES  FROM  COUSIN'S  PHILOSOPHY, 

MADE   DURING  THE   WINTER   OF   1838. 

His  first  position  is  this  :  as  soon  as  man  receives 
consciousness  he  is  surrounded  by  objects  in  a  world 
hostile  to  himself,  but  by  exertion  and  developement  of 
his  power,  he  has  conquered  and  modified  matter,  and 
has,  as  it  were,  impressed  with  his  image  and  rendered 
it  subservient  to  his  will.  The  first  man  who  overcame 
any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  desires  created  industry, 
and  the  first  who  measured  the  slightest  space  around 
him  or  united  the  objects  before  him,  introduced  the  sci 
ence  of  mathematics.  All  these,  mathematics,  physics, 
and  political  economy,  have  one  object,  utility  or  the 
useful ;  but  there  are  other  relations  in  which  men  stand 
to  each  other,  besides  those  of  hurtful  or  useful,  the  just 
and  the  unjust.  Upon  the  idea  of  the  useful,  man 
altered  the  external  appearance  of  nature  ;  upon  the 
idea  of  justice,  he  created  a  new  society,  maintaining 
their  own  rights,  and  respecting  the  rights  of  others.  But 
man  goes  further:  besides  the  hurtful  or  the  useful,  the 
just  or  the  unjust,  he  has  inherent  in  his  nature  the  idea 
of  the  beautiful  and  its  opposite.  Impressed  with  this 
idea,  man  seizes,  developes,  and  purifies  it  in  his  thought, 
until  he  finds  that  thought  superior  to  the  objects  which 
presented  it.  Every  thing  that  is  beautiful  in  nature  is 
also  imperfect,  and  fades  when  compared  with  the  idea 
it  awakens.  Thus,  man  not  only  reforms  nature  and 
society  by  industry  and  the  laws  of  justice,  but  also 
remodels  those  objects  which  present  to  him  the  idea  of 
beauty,  and  renders  them  more  beautiful  than  ever.  But 
man  is  not  yet  satisfied — he  looks  beyond  the  world  of 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  307 

industry  and  arts,  and  conceives  God.  The  idea  of 
God  as  separate  from  the  world,  but  scarcely  himself  in 
it,  is  natural  religion;  but  he  does  not  rest  there;  he 
creates  another  world,  in  which  he  perceives  nothing  but 
its  relation  to  God,  the  world  of  *  *  he  expands 
and  elevates  the  sentiment  of  religion.  Philosophy  suc 
ceeds.  Philosophy  is  the  developement  of  thought ;  it 
may  be  good  or  bad,  but  in  itself  it  is  demanded  by  the 
mind  as  much  as  religion,  the  sciences,  &c.  Cousin 
proves  this  position  by  a  rapid  examination  of  the  wants 
of  man.  ***** 


308  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 


LENORE. 

A  POEM. 

INTRODUCTION. 

WHY  should  I  sing  1     The  scenes  which  roused 
The  bards  of  old,  arouse  no  more  ; 

The  reign  of  poesy  hath  pass'd, 

And  all  her  glowing  dreams  are  o'er  ! 

Why  should  I  sing  ?     A  thousand  harps 
Have  touch'd  the  self-same  chords  before, 

Of  love,  and  hate,  and  lofty  pride, 
And  fields  of  battle  bathed  in  gore  ! 

Why  should  I  seek  the  burning  fount 

From  whence  their  glowing  fancies  sprung  1 

My  feeble  muse  can  only  sing 
What  other,  nobler  bards  have  sung ! 

Thus  did  I  breathe  my  sad  complaint, 

As,  bending  o'er  my  silent  lyre, 
I  sigh'd  for  some  romantic  theme 

Its  slumbering  music  to  inspire. 

Scarce  had  I  spoke,  when  o'er  my  soul 

A  low,  reproving  whisper  came  ; 
My  heart  instinctive  shrank  with  awe, 

And  conscience  tinged  my  cheek  with  shame. 

"Down  with  thy  vain,  repining  thoughts, 

Nor  dare  to  breathe  those  thoughts  again, 
Or  endless  sleep  shall  bind  thy  lyre, 
And  scorn  repel  thy  bursting  strain ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  309 

"What  though  a  thousand  bards  have  sung 

The  charms  of  earth,  of  air,  or  sky ! 
A  thousand  minstrels,  old  and  young, 
Pour'd  fortlf  their  varied  melody  ! 

"  What  though,  inspired,  they  stoop'd  to  drink 

At  Fancy's  fountain  o'er  and  o'er ! 
Say,  feeble  warbler,  dost  thou  think 
The  glowing  streamlet  flows  no  more  1 

"  Because  a  nobler  hand  hath  cull'd 

The  loveliest  of  our  earthly  flowers, 
Dost  thou  believe  that  all  of  bloom 
Hath  fled  those  bright,  poetic  bowers  1 

"  Know  then,  that  long  as  earth  shall  roll, 

Revolving  'neath  yon  azure  sky, 
Music  shall  charm  each  purer  soul, 
And  Fancy's  fount  shall  never  dry  ! 

"  Long  as  the  rolling  seasons  change, 

And  nature  holds  her  empire  here ; 
Long  as  the  human  eye  can  range 
O'er  yon  pure  heaven's  expanded  sphere  ; 

"  Long  as  the  ocean's  broad  expanse 

Lies  spread  beneath  yon  broader  sky ; 
Long  as  the  playful  moonbeams  dance, 
Like  fairy  forms,  on  billows  high ; 

"  So  long,  unbound  by  mortal  chain, 

Shall  genius  spread  her  soaring  wing ; 
So  long  the  pure  poetic  fount, 

Uncheck'd,  unfetter'd,  on  shall  spring. 

"  Thou  say'st  the  days  of  song  have  past, 

The  glowing  days  of  wild  romance, 
When  war  pour'd  out  his  clarion  blast, 
And  valour  bow'd  at  beauty's  glance  ! 


310  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  When  every  hour  that  onward  sped, 

Was  fraught  with  some  bewildering  tale  ; 
When  superstition's  shadowy  hand 
O'er  trembling  nations  cast  her  veil ! 

"  Thou  say'st  that  life's  unvaried  stream 

In  peaceful  ripples  wears  away ; 
And  years  produce  no  fitting  theme 
To  rouse  the  poet's  slumbering  lay. 

"  Not  so,  while  yet  the  hand  of  God 

Each  year  adorns  his  teeming  earth ; 
While  dew-drops  deck  the  verdant  sod, 
And  birds,  and  bees,  and  flowers  have  birth ; 

"  While  every  day  unfolds  anew 

Some  charm  to  meet  the  searching  eye ; 
While  buds  of  every  varying  hue 
Are  bursting  'neath  a  summer  sky. 

"  Tis  true  that  war's  unsparing  hand 

Hath  ceased  to  bathe  our  fields  in  gore  ; 
That  hate  hath  quench'd  his  burning  brand, 
And  tyrant  princes  reign  no  more. 

"  But  dost  thou  think  that  scenes  like  these 

Form  all  the  poetry  of  life  1 
Would  thy  untutor'd  muse  delight 
In  scenes  of  rapine,  blood,  and  strife  ? 

"  No — there  are  boundless  fields  of  thought, 

Where  roving  spirit  never  soar'd ; 
Which  wildest  fancy  never  sought, 
Or  boldest  intellect  explored  ! 

"  Then  bow  not  silent  o'er  thy  lyre, 

But  tune  its  chords  to  nature's  praise ; 
At  every  turn  thine  eye  shall  meet 
Fit  themes  to  form  a  poet's  lays. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  311 

Go  forth,  prepared  her  sweetest  smiles] 

In  all  her  loveliest  scenes  to  view ;  • 

Nor  deem,  though  others  there  have  knelt, 
Thou  may's*  not  weave  thy  garland  too !" 

It  paused — I  felt  how  true  the  words, 
How  sweet  the  comfort  they  convey'd ; 

I  chased  my  mourning  thoughts  away — 
I  heard — I  trusted — I  obey'd. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MY  SISTER  LUCRETIA. 

OH  thou,  so  early  lost,  so  long  deplored ! 

Pure  spirit  of  my  sister,  be  thou  near  ! 
And  while  I  touch  this  hallow'd  harp  of  thine, 

Bend,  from  the  skies,  sweet  sister,  bend  and  hear ! 

For  thee  I  pour  this  unaffected  lay, 
To  thee  these  simple  numbers  all  belong; 

For  though  thine  earthly  form  hath  pass'd  away, 
Thy  memory  still  inspires  my  childish  song. 

Then  take  this  feeble  tribute !  'tis  thine  own — 
Thy  fingers  sweep  my  trembling  heart-strings  o'er, 

Arouse  to  harmony  each  buried  tone, 

And  bid  its  waken'd  music  sleep  no  more ! 

Long  hath  thy  voice  been  silent,  and  thy  lyre 
Hung  o'er  thy  grave  in  death's  unbroken  rest ; 

But  when  its  last  sweet  tones  were  borne  away, 
One  answering  echo  linger'd  in  my  breast. 

Oh  thou  pure  spirit !  if  thou  hoverest  near, 
Accept  these  lines,  unworthy  though  they  be, 

Faint  echoes  from  thy  fount  of  song  divine, 
By  thee  inspired,  and  dedicate  to  thee  ! 


312  MISS  MARGARET  DAVJDSOX. 


CANTO  FIRST. 

'TWAS  nightfall  on  the  Rhine  !  the  day 
In  pensive  glory  stole  away, 
Flinging  his  last  and  brightest  glow. 
Full  on  the  restless  waves  below, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  dyed 
With  hues  from  heaven' the  sparkling  tide  ! 
The  fleeting  ray  an  instant  beam'd, — 
O'er  hill  and  vale  and  rock  it  stream'd, 
Till  the  dark,  time-defying  cliff 
Seem'd  glowing,  melting  into  life — 
Then  swiftly  fading,  glided  o'er, 
And  left  it  lonelier  than  before. 

The  distant  hills  of  sombre  blue, 
Tinged  with  that  rich  and  varying  hue, 
Now  darker  and  more  mingled  grew  ; 
The  Rhine,  enrobed  in  shadows  gray, 

Roll'd  on  its  giant  path, 
Lashing  the  rocks  which  barr'd  its  way, 
Now  curling  graceful,  as  in  play, 

Now  roaring  as  in  wrath  ! 
While  trembling  in  the  tinted  west, 
The  fair  moon  rear'd  her  silver  crest, 
And  fleecy  clouds,  as  snow-wreaths  pale, 
Twined  on  her  brow  their  graceful  veil ; 
And  one  by  one,  with  tiny  flame, 
Night's  heavenly  tapers  softly  came, 
And  toward  their  mistress  trembling  stole, 
Like  pleasing  memories  o'er  the  soul. 

And  shade  by  shade  her  brilliance  grew, 
As  past  away  that  sunset  hue, 
Till  o'er  the  heaving  Rhine  she  stood, 
Bathing  in  light  its  sleeping  flood  ; 
Pouring  her  full  and  melting  ray 
Where  rock  and  hill  and  forest  lay, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  313 

And  where,  in  clust'ring  trees  embower'd, 

An  ancient  castle  proudly  tower'd : 

O'er  the  gray  walls  her  glances  play'd, 

O'er  drawbridge,  moat,  and  tower  they  stray 'd, 

As  striving  with  that  holy  light 

To  pierce  the  works  of  earthly  might, 

And  cast  one  heavenly  beam  within 

The  abode  of  human  toil  and  sin. 

Can  sin  and  sorrow  and  despair 
Be  frowning  'neath  a  sky  so  fair  1 
Can  nature  sleep  while  tempests  roll 
Impetuous  o'er  the  tortured  soul  ] 

Mark  yonder  taper,  dimly  beaming, 
From  the  lone  turret  faintly  streaming, 
Casting  athwart  the  brow  of  night 
Its  wavering  and  uncertain  light ! 
Beside  that  torch  sit  guilt  and  care, 
And  dark  remorse,  and  coward  fear ; 
And  fever'd  thought  is  borrowing  there 
The  haggard  visage  of  despair ! 
There,  with  his  aged  fingers  prest 
In  clasp  convulsive  to  his  breast, 
Bows,  as  with  secret  guilt  and  pain, 
The  master  of  this  broad  domain. 

His  ample  robes  around  him  stray, 
His  locks  are  deeply  tinged  with  gray, 
And  his  dark,  low'ring  brow  is  fraught 
With  marks  of  avarice  and  thought. 
At  every  sound  which  meets  his  ear, 
He  starts  instinctive  as  with  fear, 
And  his  keen  eye  roams  here  and  there, 
With  anxious  and  expectant  air. 

His  seem'd  a  mind  of  timid  mould, 
Sway'd  by  some  spirit,  fierce  and  bold, 
21 


314  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Which  lean'd  to  virtue,  but  could  yield 

When  vice  to  avarice  appeal'd — 

Which  gazed  on  crime  with  shrinking"  eye, 

But  was  too  cowardly  to  fly. 

He  started — heard,  with  troubled  air, 

A  tread  upon  the  turret  stair ; 

Wiped  from  his  brow  the  gathering  dew, 

And  closer  still  his  mantle  drew, 

When  wide  the  massive  portal  flew ! 

As  wondering  at  this  entrance  rude, 
The  aged  host  in  silence  stood  ; 
While  with  a  stern,  unchanging  look, 
The  stranger  dofFd  his  ample  cloak, 
Unloosed  his  bonnet's  clasping  band, 
And  tow'rd  the  baron  stretch'd  his  hand. 
His  host  the  friendly  gesture  saw, 
But  shrank  in  hatred  or  in  awe — 
Then  starting,  as  with  eager  haste, 
The  proffer'd  hand  he  warmly  prest, 
And  smiled  a  welcome  to  his  guest. 
The  latter  mark'd,  with  flashing  glance, 
That  shrinking  fear,  this  mean  pretence, 
And  then  resumed  the  smile  of  scorn 
His  curling  lip  had  lately  worn. 

Uninjured  by  the  frosts  of  time, 
He  seem'd  advanced  in  manhood's  prime ; 
His  form  was  tall,  his  mien  erect, 
His  locks,  though  matted  by  neglect, 
Curl'd  closely  round  his  swarthy  brow, 
While  his  dark  orbits  flash'd  below. 
Nature,  with  fingers  firm  and  bold, 
Had  made  a  form  of  finest  mould, 
And  painted  on  his  childish  face 
The  outline  of  each  manly  grace ; 
But  pride  and  art,  those  imps  of  sin, 
Had  crept  the  empty  shrine  within ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  315 

Had  taught  his  heart  each  serpent  wile, 
And  lent  his  lip  its  fiendish  smile. 

His  brow  was  knit  with  thought  and  care, 
And  dark  design  was  scowling  there  ; 
His  glance  inspired  both  hate  and  fear — 
Now  withering  with  its  biting  sneer, 
Now  flashing  like  the  mid-day  sun, 
Which  scorches  all  it  looks  upon. 

Boldness  and  artifice  combined 
To  form  the  dark,  perverted  mind, 
Within  that  goodly  frame  enshrined; 
And  he,  whose  steps  in  early  youth 
Some  kindly  hand  had  led  to  truth, 
With  active  brain,  and  heart  that  burn'd, 
From  that  unpointed  pathway  turn'd, 
Unwarn'd,  unguided,  plunged  within 
The  blackening  gulf  of  shame  and  sin. 

On  his  dark  face  the  baron's  eye 
Gazed  anxious  and  inquiringly, 
And  when  he  mark'd  his  silent  guest 
Draw  forth  a  casket  from  the  vest 
Which  folded  loosely  on  his  breast, 
With  half-conceal'd,  convulsive  gasp, 
He  stretch'd  his  eager  hand  to  clasp 
The  sparkling  treasure  in  his  grasp. 

But  with  a  smile  more  full  than  speech, 
The  stranger  drew  it  from  his  reach ; 
On  the  rude  bench  the  casket  laid, 
Beside  his  dagger's  glittering  blade  ; 
Drew  near  his  host,  who  quaked  with  dread, 
And  thus,  in  low,  stern  accents  said  : 

"  Thou  deemest  right — that  gem  doth  hold 
A  something  dearer  far  than  gold  ; 


316  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

To  thee,  more  precious  than  thy  life, 
To  me,  the  cause  of  toil  and  strife  ! 
'Tis  that,  which  in  another's  hands, 
Would  tear  thee  from  these  goodly  lands, 
Send  thee  and  thy  fair  daughter  forth, 
From  all  thou  thinkest  life  is  worth, 
From  titles,  honours,  lands,  and  hall, 
And  to  young  Erstein  yield  them  all, 
Which  in  thine  own  will  banish  fear, 
And  make  thee  lord  and  master  here, 
Unchallenged  by  the  rightful  heir  : 
(Then  in  a  low,  impressive  tone,) 
But  hold, — that  prize  is  still  mine  own  /" 

"  Villain  !" — "  Nay,  curb  that  wrath  of  thine ! 

Hast  thou  forgot  one  word  of  mine 

Could  hurl  thee  from  thy  high  estate, 

To  beggar'd  infamy  and  hate  ] 

Could  I  not  rend  the  shrouding  veil, 

And  tell  the  wondering  world  the  tale  ; 

How  when  thy  kinsman  died  in  Spain, 

Thou  seized  upon  his  fair  domain, 

His  titles,  and  his  wealth  ;  despite 

His  heir,  the  youthful  Erstein's  right  1 

Could  I  not  tell,  how  many  a  year, 

With  artful  wile  and  coward  fear, 

Thou  sought'st  with  vain  and  mean  pretence 

These  proofs  of  his  inheritance, 

That  thou  might'st  thus  for  aye  destroy 

The  claims  of  this  romantic  boy  1 

Think'st  thou  I  will  this  power  forego, 

Another's  lands  on  thee  bestow, 

The  rightful  heir  for  thee  despoil, 

And  gain  but  hatred,  fear  and  toil  1 

"  Speak  not,  old  man  !  By  heaven  !  I  swear, 
Yon  casket  and  its  contents  there 
Were  not  more  safe  from  grasp  of  thine, 
Though  buried  in  the  heaving  Rhine, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  317 

If  thou  grant  not,  unquestion'd,  free, 
The  guerdon  I  shall  claim  of  thee  !" 
"  Ask  aught,"  the  baron  faltering  cried ; 
"  Leave  me  my  gold  !  take  aught  beside  !" 
The  stranger  knit  his  swarthy  brow, 
"  Old  dotard  !  yes,  thy  gold  and  thou  ! 
Swear  by  the  God  whom  thou  dost  fear, 
Swear  by  that  gold  thou  dost  revere, 
My  suit  is  granted  !"  and  his  eye 
Flash' d  on  the  baron  fearfully. 

"  Herman,  I  swear !"  he  mutter' d  low, 
And  the  blood  left  his  cheek  and  brow  ; 
Scarce  said  he,  ere  his  fearful  guest 
The  casket's  jewell'd  lock  had  press'd, 
And  from  its  case  of  richest  mould, 
Drawn  forth  a  written  parchment  fold. 
With  eager  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes, 
The  aged  baron  seized  the  prize, 
Tore  it  in  haste,  and  opening  wide 
The  vine-wreath'd  lattice  at  his  side, 
With  fix'd,  exulting  gaze,  consign'd 
Its  fragments  to  the  midnight  wind. 

That  scene  and  act,  that  form  and  face, 
A  painter's  hand  had  loved  to  trace : 
The  moon,  as  if  the  scene  to  shroud, 
Had  sought  the  bosom  of  a  cloud  ; 
The  murmuring  waves,  the  rustling  trees, 
The  fitful  sighing  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  hoarse  owlet's  distant  tone, 
Blent  in  one  soft  and  wailing  moan, 
Disturb'd  that  midnight  calm  alone. 

His  brow  with  burning  drops  bedew'd, 
The  old  man  at  his  lattice  stood, 
And  scann'd  with  sparkling,  lingering  eye, 
Each  fragment  as  it  floated  by ; 


318  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  Herman  mark'd  his  host  the  while 
With  sneering  and  contemptuous  smile  : 
At  length,  with  mien  of  joyous  pride, 
The  baron  hastened  to  his  side, 
And  thus  hi  tones  of  triumph  cried  : 

"  Now  have  they  perish'd  !  all  that  might 

Prove  to  the  world  young  Erstein's  right ! 

His  claim  is  as  it  ne'er  had  been, 

And  these  broad  lands  are  mine  again  ! 

When  first  by  youthful  pride  impell'd, 

This  princely  barony  I  held, 

I  knew  my  kinsman  lived,  and  knew 

These  fatal  proofs  existed  too  ; 

But  all  my  cunning  found  not  where. 

Thus  lived  I  years,  in  doubt  and  care, 

In  trembling  terror  lest  my  name 

Some  evil  chance  should  brand  with  shame; 

Or  more,  lest  all  my  hoarded  gold 

Should  vanish  from  my  loosening  hold. 

"  Blest  be  the  day,  good  Herman,  when 
Thou  earnest  from  thy  mountain  den, 
And  said  that  thou  thyself  had  known 
The  secret  which  I  deem'd  mine  own  ; 
Despair  and  anguish  made  me  dumb ; 
I  thought  the  fatal  hour  had  come. 
O'erwhelm'd  in  grief  I  little  knew 
Thy  heart,  so  noble  and  so  true, 
Nor  thought  the  object  of  my  fears, 
Could  crown  the  fruitless  search  of  years  ! 
But  knows  young  Erstein  of  his  claim 
To  Arnheim's  barony  and  name  1 
Will  he  behold  his  goodly  lands 
Seized  by  a  stranger's  trembling  hands  T' 

"  He  knows  it  not ;  romantic,  gay, 
To  distant  lands  he  roam'd  away, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  319 

And  sought  adventure  and  renown 
In  nobler  countries  than  his  own. 
One  month  return'd  from  foreign  war, 
He  lives  within  his  lonely  tower ; 
Scouring  the  forest  far  and  near, 
And  hunting  down  the  antler'd  deer ; 
But  should  he  search  the  written  past, 
And  learn  this  fatal  truth  at  last, 
His  heart  and  arm  are  strong  to  fight 
In  brave  defending  of  his  right." 

"  Ay,  should  he  so,  good  Herman  !" — Now 
A  livid  paleness  robed  his  brow  ; 
But  quick  returning  crimson  spread, 
While  thus  his  dark  accomplice  said  : 
"  And  canst  thou  not  the  path  descry  1 
Why  then,  good  baron,  he  must  die ; 
This  barrier  in  thy  way  1  hate, 
And  dark  and  wild  shall  be  his  fate. 
He  scorn'd  me,  and  I  vow'd  to  seal 
My  vengeance  on  this  faithful  steel, 
And  happy  shall  that  moment  be 
Which  bows  his  lofty  crest  to  me. 
But  night  wears  on — I  must  away — 
Thou  hast  that  casket's  price  to  pay." 

The  old  man  raised  his  troubled  eye, 

As  longing,  fearing  to  reply, 

Then  slowly  gasp'd,  with  effort  bold, 

"  Ay,  ay,  what  wouldst  thou,  land  or  gold )" 

"  Thou  hast  a  beauteous  daughter — she 

The  guerdon  of  my  toil  must  be ! 

Her  hand  must  be  unite  with  mine 

Before  another  sun  decline 

On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine  !" 

With  smother'd  shriek  and  heaving  breast 
The  father  knelt  before  his  guest. 


320  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  My  child !  my  own  Lenore  !  thy  bride  ! 
Ask  aught,  ask  every  thing  beside. 
The  dews  which  wret  the  summer  flower 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  Lenore  ! 
Through  years  of  guilt  and  care,  my  child 
Cheer'd  my  soul's  darkness  till  it  smiled  ! 
Now  that  my  locks  are  turn'd  to  gray 
Thou  canst  not  tear  that  child  away  1 
Her  gentle  purity  hath  been 
A  star  on  life's  beclouded  scene, 
Music  her  voice,  and  heaven  her  eye, — 
Oh  leave  her,  leave  her,  or  I  die  I" 

With  kindling  glances  Herman  heard 
Each  smother'd  groan,  each  anguish'd  word, 
And  then  replied,  in  tones  of  scorn, 
"  Up  from  thy  knees !  hast  thou  not  sworn 
To  grant  my  suit  ?  dost  thou  forget 
Thine  all  is  in  my  clutches  yet  1 
I  swear  that  she,  and  only  she 
Shall  buy  my  bond  of  secrecy  I" 

"  Forget  J  why  can  I  not  forget  ? — 
Would  we  had  never,  never  met ! 
Leave  me,  for  God's  sake,  leave  me  now ! — 
Oh  my  torn  heart,  my  burning  brow !" 
"  Say  thou  wilt  make  thy  daughter  mine, 
Before  another  sun  decline, 
And  I  depart,  to  come  no  more, 
Until  that  joyous  bridal  hour  I'1 

"  Wretch !  fiend !  I  will !"  the  accents  hung 
As  loth  to  leave  his  faltering  tongue ; 
But  ere  had  ceased  that  lingering  tone, 
He  turn'd  and  found  himself  alone. 
The  taper's  waving  glimmer  fell 
On  the  rude  pavement  of  the  cell, 
Where  with  his  trembling  fingers  prest 
Upon  his  heaving,  labouring  breasts 


POETICAL  REMAINS  321 

With  air  distracted,  yet  subdued, 
That  wretched  erring  parent  stood. 

His  eye  wts  fix'd,  and  bent  his  ear, 
His  guest's  retiring  steps  to  hear, 
Though  like  a  quick  and  piercing  dart, 
Each  sent  a  quivering  through  his  heart ; 
When  first  that  wild  vibration  ceased, 
The  floor  with  rapid  steps  he  paced ; 
And  thoughts  of  agonizing  pain 
Flitted  like  wild-fire  through  his  brain. 

How  should  he  give  his  child,  his  pride, 

To  be  a  branded  outlaw's  bride  1 

How  could  her  purity  have  part 

In  Herman's  cold,  perverted  heart  ? — 

Then  rush'd  back  memories  of  youth, 

When  earth  was  heaven,  and  man  was  truth, 

And  her  he  loved,  too  pure  for  life, 

Too  gentle  for  its  toil  and  strife, 

She,  who,  unheeding  slander's  tongue, 

Still  to  her  lord  had  fondly  clung — 

Her,  he  had  dared  to  scorn,  deride, 

Her  who  had  suffer'd,  wept,  and  died  ! 

While  o'er  his  mind  these  memories  stole, 
He  groan'd  in  agony  of  soul, 
"  My  child  !  no — never  shalt  thou  be 
Heir  to  thy  mother's  misery  ! 
These  aged  eyes  had  rather  weep 
O'er  thy  dark  bed  of  endless  sleep." 
Then  o'er  these  better  feelings  came 
The  ghosts  of  penury  and  shame : 
He  saw  his  gold  another's  prey, 
His  lands,  his  titles  torn  away, 
Himself  the  theme  of  public  scorn, 
His  daughter  friendless  and  forlorn, 
And  then  he  whisper'd,  "I  have  sworn  I" 


322  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  why  this  picture  longer  view  1 
Or  why  this  painful  theme  pursue  T 
Oh !  rather  let  us  weep  that  he 
Who  might  allied  to  angels  be 
Will  sully  thus  the  spark  divine, 
Imprison'd  in  its  earthly  shrine, 
And  in  compassion  drop  the  veil 
O'er  this  sad  portion  of  our  tale.  - 

Now  let  us  seek  the  lonely  bower 

Where,  at  this  silent  midnight  hour, 

So  sweetly  sleeps  the  fair  Lenore. 

A  silver  lamp,  with  flickering  beam, 

Now  dies,  now  starts  with  sudden  gleam, 

Diffusing  o'er  the  vaulted  room 

Or  wavering  light,  or  partial  gloom. 

Near,  on  the  oaken  table  lie 

Her  crucifix  and  rosary, 

And  the  small  lute,  whose  golden  string 

Hath  echoed  to  her  evening  hymn. 

Her  head  is  resting  on  her  hand, 
Her  hair,  escaping  from  its  band, 
Falls  in  rich  masses  on  her  neck, 
Her  fair  white  brow  and  flushing  cheek, 
The  long,  dark  lashes  of  her  eye 
On  their  fair  pillow  trembling  lie, 
Her  lips  half  part,  and  you  can  trace 
A  smile  of  pleasure  on  her  face. 

She  dreams — her  soul  hath  pass'd  away 
Far  from  its  lovely  shrine  of  clay, 
Scenes  of  enjoyment  to  explore, 
Where  waking  fancies  dare  not  soar. 
She  dreams — what  soft,  subduing  thought 
Hath  her  unfetter'd  spirit  caught  ] 
She  whispers  "  Erstein" — ah  !  sweet  one, 
Thou  know'st  not  what  this  hour  hath  done  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS. 

What  cloud  hath  dimm'd  thy  fortune's  star, 
And  his  thou  lovest  dearer  far ! 

Dream  on  f  for  thou  wilt  wake  to  weep, 

When  morn  dispels  that  balmy  sleep, 

And  in  thy  pilgrimage  of  pain, 

Thou  ne'er  may'st  dream  so  sweet  again. 

Hark !  tis  the  night-breeze  as  it  twines 

Round  the  tall  lattice,  wreath'd  with  vines. 

Again !  arouse  thee,  sweet  Lenore, 

A  step  is  in  the  corridor. 

It  pass'd  along  the  echoing  floor, 

And  paused  beside  the  maiden's  door, 

And  from  beneath,  a  brilliant  stream 

Of  wavering  light  was  seen  to  gleam. 

The  door  unclosed — the  torch's  fire 

Reveal'd  its  bearer — 'twas  her  sire ! 

With  trembling  hand  he  strove  to  shade 

The  beams  which  through  the  apartment  stray'd, 

And  o'er  the  placid  sleeper  play'd ; 

Then  to  her  side  he  softly  came, 

And  moved  the  shadow  from  its  flame. 

She  woke — her  night-robe  closer  drew, 
A  hurried  glance  around  her  threw ; 
Then,  with  a  troubled,  anxious  gaze, 
She  scann'd  each  feature  of  his  face. 
"  Why  come  at  midnight  to  thy  child, 
With  cheek  so  pale,  and  eye  so  wild  T' 
"  My  daughter,  rise — thou  need'st  not  fear, 
But  1  must  speak,  and  thou  must  hear." 

Then  gave  he  to  her  listening  ears 
A  tale  of  doubts  and  cares  and  fears ; 
Of  future  wretchedness  and  pain, 
Of  threaten'd  penury  and  disdain, 
And  exile  from  their  native  hearth, 
And  how  a  generous  friend  stepp'd  forth, 


32  i  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Turn'd  from  their  heads  this  direful  fate, 
And  freely  ransom'd  his  estate. 

And  how,  in  an  unguarded  hour, 
When  gratitude  alone  had  power, 
He  swore  by  every  sacred  name 
To  grant  whatever  he  might  claim ; 
How,  while  he  listen'd  in  despair, 
Did  Herman  claim  his  daughter  fair ; 
And  he  was  bound  by  all  that's  dear, 
That  solemn  promise  to  revere ; 
And  then,  with  tears  and  sighs  he  said, 
"  If  thou  dost  love  this  aged  head, 
Preserve  my  wealth,  my  peace,  my  life, 
And  be  my  kind  preserver's  wife  1" 

With  cheeks  and  brow  as  snow-wreath  pale, 

His  daughter  heard  this  fearful  tale. 

So  suddenly  that  dread  blow  came, 

It  struck  like  palsy  on  her  frame. 

Through  her  veins  crept  an  icy  chill, 

As  if  her  very  heart  stood  still, 

And  nought  was  heard  the  calm  to  break, 

When  her  old  sire  had  ceased  to  speak ; 

But  though  her  fix'd  and  glaring  eye 

No  outward  object  could  descry, 

Before  her  spirit's  glance,  a  throng 

Of  vivid  pictures  swept  along. 

She  saw  the  shaded  bower,  the  grove, 
Where  first  young  Erstein  "  whisper'd  love." 
She  saw  his  dark,  reproachful  eye, 
.  Upraised  to  hers  in  agony, 
And  then,  a  sterner  vision  came 
Of  him,  her  fancy  dared  not  name. 
She  saw  his  tall  and  muffled  form, 
She  saw  his  withering  smile  of  scorn, 
She  saw — "  Lenore" — her  father  spoke — 
The  spell  which  bound  her  tongue  was  broke. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  325 

She  knelt  his  bending  form  beside, 
And  thus  in  faltering  accents  cried  : 

"  My  fathej  !  canst  thou  doom  so  sore 

A  trial  to  thine  own  Lenore  1 

Is  there  no  spot  of  refuge  still  1 

Is  poverty  so  great  an  ill  7 

To  pomp  and  wealth  thy  heart  is  cold — 

Yield  up  to  him  thy  hoarded  gold ! 

What  carest  thou  for  state  or  pride, 

If  /  am  ever  by  thy  side  1 

Give  him  thine  all,  and  let  us  go 

Far  from  this  darkest,  deadliest  foe  ! 

Thou  shalt  have  peace,  and  I  will  be 

A  more  than  comforter  to  thee  !" 

"  My  child,  I  cannot  change  thy  lot — 
Thou  speakest  of  thou  know'st  not  what. 
How  would st  thou  hear  thy  father's  name, 
Branded  with  infamy  and  shame  7" 

To  his  dark  mantle  she  had  clung, 
Now  to  her  feet  she  swiftly  sprung ! 
A  tear  had  trembled  in  her  eye, 
But  now  she  dash'd  it  firmly  by; 
Her  cheek  had  blanch'd  with  fear  before, 
But  now  that  paleness  was  no  more  ! 
With  form  erect,  and  glance  of  fire, 
She  gazed  upon  her  cowering  sire, 
As  though  her  piercing  eye  could  see 
His  heart's  remotest  secrecy. 

A  dark  and  dread  suspicion  stole 
Like  burning  lava  o'er  her  soul. 
"  Why  is  that  fear  upon  his  face  7 
Why  should  my  father  dread  disgrace  7 
He,  I  had  thought,  no  shame  could  dim, 
Why,  why  should  shame  descend  on  him  7 


326  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

What  is  this  mystery,  and  how 
Can  I  avert  this  dreaded  blow? 
I  know  not,  and  because  mine  eye 
May  not  the  source  of  ill  descry, 
Shall  I  the  power  of  good  forego, 
And  plunge  him  into  deeper  wo  1" 
Her  pure  affection  answer'd  "No!" 

If  he  were  noble,  as  she  deem'd, 
The  path  of  right  most  open  seem'd, 
To  chase  each  shadow  from  his  eyes, 
E'en  at  this  fearful  sacrifice ; 
If  he  deserved  the  meed  of  shame, 
Was  not  that  pathway  still  the  same  ? 
A  moment's  calm  was  in  her  brain, 
She  dared  not  pause  for  thought  again, 
But  springing  to  her  father's  side, 
She  whisper'd,  "  I  will  be  his  bride  1" 

She  heeded  not  his  fond  caressing, 
She  heeded  not  his  parting  blessing — 
The  die  was  cast ! — and  there  she  bent, 
Fix'd  as  a  marble  monument : 
Nought  but  her  quick  and  gasping  breath 
Revealing  there  was  life  beneath. 

Her  father  left  that  fatal  spot- 
She  was  alone,  yet  knew  it  not, 
Till  his  quick  footstep  as  it  past, 
Dissolved  the  fearful  charm  at  last, 
And  sent  a  wild  and  burning  glow 
Through  the  full  arteries  of  her  brow ; 
Then  came  affliction's  sweet  relief, 
Weeping,  soft  child  of  stern-eyed  grief, 
That  lulls  the  passions  into  rest, 
And  soothes  the  mourner's  tortured  breast. 

When  the  first  agony  was  past, 

Her  gushing  tears  flow'd  long  and  fast, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  327 

And  with  thanksgiving  fervent,  deep, 
She  own'd  the  privilege  to  weep. 

Alas!  frail,, flower!  her  life  had  been 
One  bright,  unchanging,  tranquil  scene ; 
Loving  and  loved,  as  wild  bird  gay, 
Her  frolic  childhood  pass'd  away ; 
And  when  her  stronger  mind  could  feel 
More  deep  emotions  o'er  it  steal, 
When  her  pure  heart  look'd  forth  for  one 
To  rest  her  pure  affections  on, 
Then  did  her  trusting  spirit  find 
An  answering  chord  in  Erstein's  mind ; 
And  childhood's  laughing  glance  and  tone 
Gave  place  to  deeper  joys  alone  ! 

And  only  would  her  cheek  grow  pale 
To  hear  some  wild,  romantic  tale ; 
And  only  for  imagined  wo 
Her  sympathetic  tear  would  flow — 
Her  youthful  heart  had  never  known 
To  sigh  for  sorrows  of  its  own. 

The  past  was  all  one  vision  bright, 

A  storehouse  of  untold  delight, 

To  which  her  mind  at  will  might  stray, 

And  bear  unnumber'd  gems  away ; 

With  trusting  hope  and  buoyant  glee 

She  gazed  into  futurity, 

Nor  thought  that  time's  advancing  wing 

A  darker  moment  e'er  could  bring. 

The  dream  now  faded  from  her  eyes, 

She  woke  to  life's  realities ! 

And  feelings  pure,  and  strong,  and  deep, 

Rose  from  their  long,  inactive  sleep, 

And  proudly  did  the  maiden  own 

A  strength  within,  till  then  unknown, 

That,  which  secure  in  virtue,  rose 

To  combat  with  assailing  foes. 


328  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oft  would  her  fearful  fancy  shrink 
Back  from  the  gulf's  tremendous  brink, 
And  oft  to  reason's  glance  would  rise 
The  madness  of  the  sacrifice. 
But  o'er  her  father's  aged  form 
There  hung  some  dark,  portentous  storm  ! 
A  daughter's  choice,  a  daughter's  will 
Could  ward  from  him  that  nameless  ill ! 
And  thus  the  hapless  maiden  sought 
To  quell  each  wild,  rebellious  thought. 

And  morning  came,  and  soft  and  still 
She  dawn'd  above  the  distant  hill, 
Her  wreaths  of  trembling  light  to  twine 
On  the  blue  waters  of  the  Rhine. 
The  mists  which  on  his  bosom  lay, 
Pass'd  like  an  infant's  dream  away, 
And  left  the  sun's  awakening  beam 
To  frolic  with  his  mighty  stream. 

As  though  to  greet  the  dawning  day, 
The  rolling  billows  curl'd  in  play; 
And  wild  and  murmuring  tones  were  borne 
Forth  on  the  balmy  breeze  of  morn. 
The  towering  cliffs,  so  dark  and  wild, 
On  its  rude  shores  in  masses  piled, 
Touch'd  by  her  gentle  influence,  smiled ; 
And  the  young  flowers  the  rocks  beneath 
Woke  at  the  dawn's  reviving  breath, 
And  on  their  leaves,  so  soft  and  bright, 
Hung  tears  of  worship  and  delight. 

When  all  is  gay  with  nature's  smile, 
Forgive  me  if  I  pause  awhile, 
And  turn  from  passion,  grief,  unrest, 
To  muse  upon  her  tranquil  breast. 

Nature  !  thou  ever  rollest  on, 

With  winter's  blast  and  summer's  sun, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  329 

Untouch'd  by  passion's  raging-  storm, 
Rearing  on  high  thy  mystic  form, 
Springing  anew  to  brighter  life 
Amid  the  world's  enduring  strife ! 
Man  lives,  and  breathes  his  fleeting  day, 
Now  sinks  'neath  sorrow's  chilling  sway, 
Now  basks  in  pleasure's  golden  ray, 
Then,  like  a  snow-curl,  melts  away. 
The  piles  he  rear'd  in  swelling  pride, 
To  strive  with  time's  o'erwhelming  tide, 
Proving  the  weakness  of  his  trust, 
Sink,  like  their  builders,  in  the  dust. 

But  while  the  fabrics,  rear'd  so  high, 

In  ruins  on  thy  bosom  lie, 

Thou,  like  some  great  and  mystic  page, 

Unfoldest  still  from  age  to  age, 

Bearing  in  every  line  conceal'd 

The  wisdom  ages  could  not  yield  ; 

Thy  flowers  shall  bloom,  thy  mountains  soar, 

Till  rolling  earth  shall  be  no  more; 

Thine  ocean  waves  shall  sink  and  rise 

Till  Time  himself  exhausted  dies ; 

While  on  thy  mighty  bosom  spread 

The  crumbling  relics  of  the  dead  ! 

How  doth  this  sweet  and  solemn  hour 

Hold  o'er  the  heart  its  mystic  power ! 

Bidding  each  wilder  tumult  cease, 

To  passion's  whirlwind  whispering  "  Peace  !" 

Calming  the  frantic  flights  of  joy, 

And  bright'ning  sorrow's  downcast  eye  ! 

Oh  !  may  it  shed  its  influence  o'er 
The  tortured  heart  of  poor  Lenore  ! 
She  who  was  wont  at  earliest  dawn 
To  chase  the  wild  bird  o'er  the  lawn, 
While  the  young  flowers  their  fragrance  cast 
As  on  her  fairy  footstep  past! 
22 


330  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Who  now,  unheeding  bird  or  flower, 
Steals  forth  to  seek  her  favourite  bower, 
To  bid  each  cherish'd  scene  farewell, 
And  calm  her  heart's  convulsive  swell. 

There,  in  her  childhood's  buoyant  days, 
Oft  had  she  sung  her  artless  lays ; 
And  still,  as  time  roll'd  onward,  there 
At  morn  and  evening  would  repair, 
To  rear,  in  fancy,  forms  most  fair, 
Nor  dream  that  she  could  find  them — air ! 

Once  more,  within  her  loved  retreat, 

She  lean'd  upon  its  flowery  seat, 

And  mark'd  the  clustering  vines,  which  sent 

A  grateful  perfume  as  they  bent ; 

Above  the  eastern  hills  of  blue 

The  sun's  broad  orb  more  brilliant  grew, 

And  many  a  rich  and  gorgeous  ray 

Full  on  the  glistening  forests  lay ; 

But,  buried  in  her  lonely  bower, 

She  heeded  not  the  passing  hour  ! 

The  vines  beside  her  loudly  stirr'd, 

But  not  a  sound  her  ear  had  heard  ; 

A  step  seem'd  hast'ning  to  the  spot, 

But  still  the  maiden  mark'd  it  not — 

And  yet  more  near  the  intruder  came ; 

A  well-known  voice  pronounced  her  name  : 

She  started  lightly  from  her  seat, 

And  blush'd — 'twas  Erstein  at  her  feet ! 

As  the  bright  sun-hues  of  the  west 
Fade  from  the  snow-wreath's  pallid  crest, 
Flitted  that  blush  her  pale  cheek  o'er, 
And  left  it  paler  than  before  ! 
Oh,  had  you  seen  his  youthful  form, 
Adorn'd  with  every  manly  charm, 
And  known  his  heart,  so  bold  and  warm, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  331 

And,  like  Lenore,  that  heart  had  proved, 
You  would  not  marvel  that  she  loved. 

Bred  to  a  fierce  and  martial  life, 
Nurtured  for  years  on  fields  of  strife, 
A  spirit  fiery,  bold,  and  high, 
Was  pictured  in  his  flashing  eye, 
And  you  might  think  its  glance  implied 
A  soul  of  haughtiness  and  pride  ; 
But  when  some  gentler  feelings  stole 
O'er  the  deep  waters  of  that  soul, 
Then  pass'd  that  quick  and  burning  ray, 
Melted  in  tenderness  away, 
And  lovelier  seem'd  its  gentle  beam, 
Contrasted  with  that  brilliant  gleam. 

When  first  a  brave  young  soldier,  come 
From  clashing  sword  and  pealing  drum, 
O'er  his  own  land  once  more  to  rove, 
Then  first  his  soul  awaked  to  love  ! 
And  oh,  what  floods  of  pure  delight 
Burst  in  upon  his  spirit's  sight ! 
What  depths  of  joy,  unknown  before, 
Oped  in  the  presence  of  Lenore  ! 

Her  gentle  influence  suppress'd 
Each  sterner  passion  in  his  breast, 
And  while  controlling,  quell'd,  subdued 
Each  feeling  haughty,  wild,  or  rude. 
From  her,  unwitting,  he  could  learn 
Her  father's  temper,  dark  and  stern ; 
And  while  had  glided  day  by  day, 
In  tranquil  happiness  away, 
He  dared  not  break  the  magic  spell, 
His  ardent  feelings  loved  too  well, 
By  laying  thoughts  and  hopes  so  bold 
Before  a  sire  so  stern  and  cold, 
Who  would  have  deem'd  it  daring  pride 
To  claim  his  daughter  as  a  bride  ; 


332  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

He  who  had  nought  to  aid  that  claim 
But  love,  his  honour,  and  his  name. 

Thus  he  was  wont,  when  morning  gray 
Cast  o'er  the  hills  its  earliest  ray, 
Clad  in  the  huntsman's  sylvan  gear, 
To  chase  ('twas  said)  the  wild-wood  deer  ; 
But  ever,  when  his  searching  eye 
The  towers  of  Arnheim  could  descry, 
He  left  his  faithful  steed  to  wait 
Within  a  thicket's  dark  retreat, 
And  bounded  lawn  and  streamlet  o'er 
To  snatch  one  moment  with  Lenore. 

This  morn,  with  bosom  bounding  high, 
With  springing  step  and  sparkling  eye, 
He  came  to  seek  her, — but  in  vain  ; 
He  pass'd  her  favourite  haunts  again, 
Till  winding  down  a  shaded  way, 
Which  o'er  the  cliff's  dark  bosom  lay, 
He  turn'd  the  castle's  rearmost  tower, 
And  found  this  lone,  sequester'd  bower. 

I  may  not  tune  my  youthful  string 
That  scene  of  hapless  love  to  sing  ; 
Song  cannot  well  those  thoughts  reveal 
The  heart  ne'er  felt,  and  cannot  feel ; 
Let  fancy  then  her  garland  weave, 
And  fill  the  trifling  void  I  leave. 

Suffice  it  that  with  bearing  high, 
And  sad  composure  in  her  eye, 
And  throbbing  nerves  and  bursting  heart, 
Well  did  that  maiden  act  her  part, 
And  gave  her  tale  of  grief  and  fear 
To  Erstein's  wondering,  listening  ear. 
Not  so  the  youth, — a  burning  glow 
Was  mounting  fiercely  to  his  brow, 
And  grief  and  anger  in  his  eye, 
Were  struggling  for  the  mastery. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  333 

When  Herman's  name  escaped  her  tongue, 
Quick  to  his  feet  he  wildly  sprung. 
"  In  foreign  lands  that  wretch  I  met ; 
Fiend !  sordid  villain  !  lives  he  yet  f 
Oh !  were  the  scoffer  here  to  meet 
From  this  strong  hand  his  well-earn'd  fate, 
How  few  would  be  the  moments  given 
To  make  his  spirit's  peace  with  heaven ! 

"  But  ihou,  Lenore  !  my  steed  is  nigh, 
And  I  vrill  save  thee  !  dearest,  fly  !" 
"  No  !  Erstein,  no !  I'd  rather  die  ! 
My  fate  is  fix'd,  my  lot  is  cast, 
Its  keenest  bitterness  is  past ; 
Though  her  heart  break,  the  poor  Lenore 
Must  think  of  thee  and  love  no  more ! 

"  Oh,  leave  me  !  'tis  my  prayer,  my  will ; 
Make  not  my  task  more  dreadful  still : 
Thou  knowest  more  than  I  would  tell, 
Erstein,  away  !  farewell,  farewell  1" 
With  trembling  hand,  the  cavalier 
Dash'd  from  his  eye  the  starting  tear, 
Bow'd  on  her  hand  his  burning  head, 
And  ere  her  heart  could  throb,  had  fled. 

END  OF  CANTO  FIRST. 


The  notes  have  paused — the  song  hath  died  away,. 

And  wouldst  thou  wake  the  trembling  tones  again 
And  while  the  minstrel  pours  his  wandering  lay 

Bid  thy  warm  heart  re-echo  to  the  strain  1 

Wouldst  hear  the  sequel  of  this  simple  tale, 
And  list  attentive  to  the  voice  of  wo  1 

Weep  with  affection,  or  with  fear  turn  pale, 
And  smile  when  riseth  joy's  triumphant  glow  1 


334  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Then,  will  I  touch  the  quivering  harp  once  more, 
While  fancy  spreads  her  rainbow-tinted  wing, 

O'er  the  dark  vale  of  buried  years  to  soar 
And  back  to  life  their  faded  shadows  bring ! 

And  thou  must  gently  glance  its  errors  o'er, 
Should  the  untutor'd  bard  uncouthly  sing. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

OH,  darkly  the  shadows  of  evening  fell 

On  forest  and  mountain,  on  streamlet  and  dell, 

And  the  clouds,  in  masses  of  sombre  hue, 

O'er  the  couch  of  the  morning  their  draperies  threw ; 

And  their  shade  fell  dark  on  the  Rhine  below, 

Whose  billows  heaved  proudly  and  slowly,  as  though 

The  giant  heart  of  the  tempest-god 

Was  beating  strong  'neath  its  swelling  flood. 

Its  voice  came  up  with  a  sullen  roar 

As  the  waves  dash'd  fierce  on  the  rock-bound  shore, 

And  the  wild-bird  scream'd  as  he  skimm'd  them  o'er, 

While  the  vessel  which  flew  o'er  its  surface  that  day, 

With  her  white  wings  furl'd,  on  its  dark  bosom  lay, 

Just  kissing  the  foam  with  her  bending  side, 

As  if  owning  the  power  of  the  lordly  tide. 

The  morning  rose  meekly,  and  softly,  and  fair, 

But  at  evening  the  frown  of  the  storm-god  was  there, 

And  gladness  and  beauty  fled  back  from  his  eye 

Like  the  smile  from  the  spirit  when  sorrow  draws  nigh. 

Where  the  sunbeams  had  wreathed  round  the  mountain's  tall 

crest 

Now  floated  a  mantle  of  darkness  and  mist, 
And  the  wing  of  the  tempest  did  fearfully  fall 
O'er  the  arches  and  towers  of  that  time-honour'd  hall. 

The  portal  was  shut,  and  the  drawbridge  was  raised, 
And  no  gleam  of  a  torch  from  the  banquet-hall  blazed ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  335 

But  with  faces  of  gloom,  and  steps  measured  and  slow, 
The  warders  were  pacing  the  gateway  below, 
Now  silently  marking  the  clouds  overhead, 
Now  whispering  in  accents  of  sorrow  and  dread. 

The  hall  was  deserted ;  the  court-yard  alone 

Heard  an  echoing  tread  on  its  pavement  of  stone, 

And  parties  of  menials  were  gathering  there 

With  faces  of  mystery,  faces  of  care. 

Not  a  voice  was  heard  but  in  murmurings  low, 

Not  a  torch  was  seen  with  its  cheerful  glow, 

Save  where  a  ray  was  streaming  o'er 

The  ancient  chapel's  massive  door, 

And  wandering  with  its  glimmer  faint 

O'er  sculptured  cherubim  and  saint. 

'Twas  an  ancient  pile,  and  the  creeping  vine 
Had  begun  o'er  its  mouldering  arches  to  twine, 
And  the  long  bright  grass  unmark'd  had  grown 
On  the  broken  pavements  of  crumbling  stone ; 
And  the  rude  remains  of  a  ruder  day, 
Shatter'd  and  torn  'neath  its  vaulted  roof  lay. 

'Twas  a  solemn  scene,  when  the  ancient  pile 
Was  glittering  bright  in  the  morning  smile. 

And  bold  in  nerve  and  in  heart  was  he, 
Who  wrould  dare  to  walk  in  its  haunted  aisle ! 

For  oh,  it  was  fearful  there  to  be, 

When  the  night  was  falling  gloomily ; 
When  the  tempest  shriek'd  round  its  massive  wall, 
And  darkness  enrobed  it  like  a  pall. 

Why  then  doth  light  unwonted  shine 
From  the  gilded  lamps  on  the  ruin'd  shrine  ? 
And  why  o'er  the  rest  of  the  baron's  hall 
Is  it  darkness  and  silence  and  dreariness  all  ] 
And  why  with  that  anxious  and  sorrowful  mien, 
Do  the  menials  gaze  on  the  desolate  scene  1 


336  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Alas !  those  chapel  walls  this  night 

Must  witness  a  dark,  unholy  rite, 

And  the  gale,  which  shrieks  in  its  fitful  start, 

Must  sing  the  wail  of  a  broken  heart ! 

And  on  that  sacred  altar,  where 

So  oft  the  suppliant  breathed  his  prayer, 

A  young  and  ardent  soul  must  lay 

A  deeper  sacrifice  to-day — 

Upon  its  marble  bosom  fling 

The  blushing  flowers  of  life's  warm  spring, 

And  all  the  radiant  garlands  wove 

By  buoyant  hope  and  guileless  love. 

Alas,  that  man's  unhallow'd  hand 
The  spirit's  sacred  veil  should  rend, 
And  for  his  own  dark  purpose  tear 
The  warm  and  glowing  treasures  there ; 
Then  as  in  mockery  dare  to  twine, 
Upon  his  Maker's  holy  shrine, 
Those  pure  and  fond  affections,  given 
To  make  this  weary  earth  a  heaven. 

When  last  those  crumbling  walls  had  heard 

Or  muffled  tread  or  whisper'd  word, 

A  funeral  wail  had  fill'd  the  pile, 

A  train  of  mourners  fill'd  the  aisle, 

And  there  in  solemn  pomp  interr'd 

A  distant  kinsman  of  their  lord. 

Thus  still  upon  the  shrouded  wall 
Hung  the  black  draperies  like  a  pall, 
In  long,  unmoving  masses,  save 
When  the  chill  wind  its  folds  would  wave, 
And  swelling  slow  the  dismal  screen, 
Betray  the  shatter'd  stones  between. 

Tall  torches  burn'd  the  shrine  before, 
Casting  their  rays  the  chapel  o'er, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  337 

And  shedding  pale  and  sickly  light 
Upon  the  scowling  brow  of  night ! 
While  from  each  lofty  arch,  the  eye 
Could  mark  the  thick  clouds  passing  by, 
In  blackening  masses  wildly  driven 
Athwart  the  frowning  face  of  heaven. 

The  vaulted  ceiling  echoed  round 

Each  clanking  tread,  or  mutter'd  sound, 

And  the  blast  which  crept  o'er  the  pavements  bare, 

And  waved  the  torches'  flickering  glare, 

WaiFd  in  a  sad  and  thrilling  tone, 

Like  a  departed  spirit's  moan. 

Beside  the  altar  stood  its  priest, 
His  wan  hands  folded  on  his  breast, 
The  quivering  torchlight  o'er  him  playing, 
His  gray  locks  round  his  forehead  straying, 
And  his  eye  wandering  here  and  there, 
With  anxious  and  unsettled  air ; 
And  ever,  as  its  glance  would  fall 
On  Herman's  form,  so  grim  and  tall, 
He  mutter'd,  turn'd  in  shuddering  haste, 
And  sign'd  the  cross  upon  his  breast. 

Well  might  the  priest  instinctive  turn, 
From  gazing  on  a  face  so  stern  ; 
For  oh,  it  told  of  storms  within, 
The  strife  of  passion,  pride,  and  sin ; 
More  fearful,  more  appalling  far, 
Than  the  fierce  tempest's  raging  war. 

With  hurried  steps  he  paced  awhile 
The  grass-grown  pavements  of  the  aisle, 
And  on  the  open  portal  nigh, 
His  keen  glance  fell  impatiently, 
Till  his  dark  brow  yet  darker  lower'd, 
And  his  hand  fiercely  grasp'd  his  sword. 


338  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

"  If  he  should  dare  deceive  me  !  then 
He'll  find  the  lion  in  his  den  !" 
Scarce  were  the  startling  accents  o'er, 
When  darkening  shadows  fill'd  the  door ; — 
It  was  the  baron  and  Lenore. 

A  large  dark  mantle,  closely  drawn, 
Conceal'd  the  maiden's  fragile  form  ; 
But  her  measured  step  was  firmer  far 
Than  the  trembling  tread  of  her  aged  sire, 
And  she  came  with  a  calm  and  unfaltering  air% 
To  offer  up  all  that  was  dear  to  her  there. 

And  when  she  stood  the  shrine  beside, 
A  sad  and  self-devoted  bride, 
She  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  raised  on  high 
The  thrilling  glance  of  her  tearless  eye, 
And  the  stern  bridegroom  shrunk  below 
That  look  of  fix'd  and  speechless  wo. 

But  the  keen  pang  past  quickly  o'er, 
And  left  her  tranquil  as  before  : 
Her  pallid  fingers  gently  press'd 
The  clasping  jewel  on  her  breast, 
And  the  dark  mantle  falling  back, 
Reveal'd  her  bridal  robe  of  black  ! 
The  massive  folds  hung  drooping  there 
Around  her  form,  so  slight  and  fair, 
As  the  sad  cypress  in  its  gloom 
O'er  the  white  marble  of  the  tomb. 

In  unconfined  and  native  grace 
Her  long,  dark  tresses  veil'd  her  face, 
Contrasting  with  the  cheek  and  brow 
So  pallid  and  so  deathlike  now, 
And  casting  round  her,  as  they  stray'd, 
A  waving  and  a  dreamlike  shade. 
Thus  stood  she,  motionless  and  still, 
Like  some  pale  form  of  Grecian  skill, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  339 

Placed  by  the  matchless  sculptor  there, 
A  breathing  image  of  despair. 

One  torturing,  agonizing  day 
Had  quell'd  the  heart  so  light  and  gay, 
And  given  her  mien  a  bearing  high 
Of  calm  and  thoughtful  dignity. 

The  baron  started  as  his  eye 
Fell  on  her  sombre  drapery : 
"  Lenore,"  he  whispered,  "  why  to-day 
Assume  such  ominous  array  1 
Couldst  thou  not  find  a  bridal  dress, 
More  fitting  such  a  scene  as  this  1" 
She  bent  her  dark  and  earnest  gaze 
A  moment  on  her  father's  face, 
As  if  her  senses  could  not  hear 
The  words  which  fell  upon  her  ear, 
Then  said,  with  quick,  convulsive  start, 
"  And  wouldst  thou  gild  a  bleeding  heart) 
A  broken  spirit  wouldst  thou  fold 
In  sparkling  robes  of  tinsell'd  gold  1 
'Twere  mockery  !  this  is  fittest  guise 
To  deck  a  living  sacrifice." 

The  baron  turn'd,  in  sudden  thought, 

To  Herman's  towering  form,  and  sought 

To  melt  that  heart,  more  hard  than  steel, 

By  one  long  look  of  mute  appeal, 

As  half  expecting  to  receive 

Some  blessed  signal  of  reprieve  ; 

But  his  knit  brow  and  flashing  eye 

Reveal'd  his  dark  and  stern  reply, 

And  the  priest  oped  the  sacred  book 

With  pale  and  hesitating  look. 

The  thunder's  deep  and  muttering  tone 

Broke  on  the  listening  ear  alone ; 

He  paused,  bent  low  his  moisten'd  brow, 

And  read  with  quivering  voice  and  slow. 


340  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

While  yet  the  feeble  accents  hung 
Unfinished  on  his  faltering  tongue; 
Through  the  tall  arches  flashing  came 
A  broad  and  livid  sheet  of  flame, 
Playing  with  fearful  radiance  o'er 
The  upraised  features  of  Lenore, 
The  shrinking  form  of  her  trembling  sire, 
The  bridegroom's  face  of  scowling  ire, 
And  the  folded  hands,  and  heaving  breast, 
And  prophet-like  mien  of  the  aged  priest ! 

'Twas  a  breathless  pause, — but  a  moment  more, 

And  that  fierce,  unnatural  beam  was  o'er, 

And  a  stunning  crash,  as  if  earth  were  driven 

On  thundering  wheels  to  the  gates  of  heaven, 

Burst,  peal'd,  and  mutter'd,  long  and  deep, 

Then  sinking,  growl'd  itself  to  sleep, 

And  all  was  still ; — the  priest  first  broke 

Th'  oppressive  silence  as  he  spoke  : 

"  Both  heaven  and  earth  their  powers  unite 

Against  this  dark,  unhallow'd  rite  ! 

A  voice  without,  a  voice  within, 

I  la tli  told  me  that  the  deed  were  sin ! 

Though  death  and  danger  bar  my  way, 

I  will  not — dare  not  disobey  1" 

A  cloud  more  dark  than  the  tempest  now 
Was  gathering  sternly  on  Herman's  brow : 
"  Priest !  madman  !  hypocrite  !  proceed  ! 
Or  blows  shall  mend  thy  coward  creed !" 
"  For  God's  sake,  peace  !"  the  baron  cried, 
And  closer  drew  to  Herman's  side. 
"  One  moment,  peace  !  for  hark  !  I  hear 
Loud  cries  come  nearer  and  more  near !" 

"  Fool !  'tis  the  wailing  of  the  blast, 
Which  sweeps  these  echoing  ruins  past ! 
I  brook  no  dallying !     Deal  thou  fair, 
Or  by  yon  heaven,  old  man,  I  swear, 
Thou  shalt  have  reason  to  beware !" 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  341 

Still  did  the  cowering  baron  stand, 
With  fixed  eye  and  upraised  hand, 
As  one  who  bends  an  earnest  ear 
Some  faint  and  distant  sound  to  hear. 

And  while  he  listen'd,  by  degrees 

That  sound  came  swelling  on  the  breeze, 

Now  low  and  hoarse,  now  shrill  and  loud, 

Like  mingled  voices  of  a  crowd ; 

And  as  more  near  the  tones  were  heard, 

Did  Herman  fiercely  grasp  his  sword, 

As  if  preparing  to  chastise 

Whatever  should  bar  his  destined  prize ! 

And  louder  still  the  clamour  rose, 

Like  mingled  sounds  of  shouts  and  blows, 

And  on  that  tide  of  tumult  came 

The  baron's  and  the  bridegroom's  name. 

One  moment  struck  with  mute  surprise, 
Each  raised  to  each  his  wondering  eyes ; 
But  Herman,  roused  to  action  first, 
Forth  from  the  group  infuriate  burst ; 
When,  ere  the  baron  reach'd  his  side, 
The  low-brow'd  portal  open'd  wide, 
And  a  menial,  pale  with  breathless  haste, 
Wounded  and  bleeding,  forward  prest: 
"  Fly  to  the  rescue,  baron,  fly ! 
Ere  all  thy  faithful  followers  die  ! 
For  armed  men  the  moat  have  past, 
Have  gain'd  the  inner  court  at  last, 
And  fight  and  clamour  for  thy  guest !" 

A  wild  and  bitter  laughter  rung 
From  Herman's  lips  ere  forth  he  sprung. 
"  And  so  my  comrades  come  to  trace 
Their  worthy  leader's  lurking-place  7 
'Tis  well !  not  yet  my  race  is  run, 
And  dearly  shall  my  life  be  won !" 


342  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  baron  and  his  guest  have  gone  ; 
The  bride  and  priest  are  here  alone  ! 
How  doth  that  fragile  plant  sustain 
Its  courage  in  this  hour  of  pain  1 
Perplex'd,  bewilder'd,  and  amazed, 
Upon  the  shifting  scene  she  gazed, 
And  only  felt,  with  quick  delight, 
That  he  whose  presence  seem'd  a  blight 
To  chill  each  heart  with  shuddering  fear, 
That  he  no  more  was  lingering  near. 

She  breathed  one  deep  and  thrilling  groan, 
And  sank  upon  the  shatter' d  stone  ! 
She  had  nor  power  nor  will  to  rise, 
But  with  clasp'd  hands,  and  straining  eyes 
Fix'd  on  the  portal,  did  she  wait 
The  coming  crisis  of  her  fate. 

The  wind  rush'd  in  from  the  open'd  door, 
And  the  red  torchlight  was  no  more, 
And  the  rude  pile  was  dark,  save  where 
The  lightning  spread  its  ghastly  glare, 
Or  from  the  crowded  courtyard  came 
Some  broad  and  glancing  stream  of  flame. 

The  wounded  man's  expiring  groan 
Seem'd  echoed  from  the  roof  of  stone ; 
And  louder  yet  the  piercing  din 
Burst  on  the  listening  pair  within. 
The  stone-paved  court  alternate  rang 
With  clashing  steel,  and  shout,  and  clang ; 
And  waving  wildly  to  and  fro, 
The  torches  spread  their  fiery  glow, 
Casting  o'er  every  point  of  sight 
A  glaring  and  unearthly  light ; 
While,  as  the  fearful  shouts  did  rise 
In  blended  tumult  to  the  skies, 
The  spirit  of  the  midnight  storm 
Rear'd  on  the  clouds  his  black'ning  form, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  343 

And  with  each  cry  which  swell'd  the  gale 
Mingled  his  wild  and  shrieking  wail. 

Now  closer  drew  the  assailing  band, 
With  sword  to  sword,  and  hand  to  hand, 
And  fiercely  toward  the  chapel  prest, 
Where  stood  the  baron  and  his  guest. 
Herman,  with  fix'd  and  cautious  eye, 
Beheld  his  furious  foes  draw  nigh, 
And  vow'd  in  this  unequal  strife 
Not  he  alone  should  part  with  life. 

Nearer  they  came,  with  shout  and  cry, 
"  Down  with  the  traitor !  caitiff',  die  !" 
And  if  a  moment  more  had  sped, 
The  wretch  had  number'd  with  the  dead ; 
When,  with  a  voice  deep-toned  and  loud, 
A  tall  form  issued  from  the  crowd, 
Press'd  firmly  through  the  rushing  tide, 
And  springing  close  to  Herman's  side, 
In  calm,  commanding  accents  cried : 

"  And  are  ye  men  1     Bear  back,  I  say  ! 
Ye  throng  like  tigers  on  their  prey ! 
Bear  back  a  space,  and  he  or  I 
In  fair  and  equal  fight  shall  die !" 

As  waves  retire,  with  sullen  roar, 
From  meeting  with  the  rock-bound  shore, 
The  crowd  bore  back  with  mutterings  low, 
In  waving  columns  long  and  slow, 
And  stood,  with  eager  gaze,  to  wait 
The  youthful  champion's  coming  fate. 

The  stranger  raised  his  sword,  when  nigh 
There  burst  a  low  and  thrilling  cry ; 
He  turn'd — a  wretch,  unseen  before, 
Still  linger'd  by  the  chapel-door, 


344  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

And  raised  in  air  his  gleaming  blade 

Above  the  baron's  aged  head. 

One  spring — one  stroke — with  piercing  yell, 

And  long,  deep  groan,  the  miscreant  fell ; 

And  the  young  warrior  stood  before 

His  dark-brow'd  combatant  once  more  ! 

Herman,  with  eager  look,  intent 
Upon  his  foe  his  keen  eye  bent ; 
And  while  he  thus  his  form  survey 'd, 
His  quivering  lip  his  rage  betray'd; 
Then  forth  in  furious  haste  he  sprang, 
Till  the  young  stranger's  armour  rang 
With  his  quick  strokes'  incessant  clang. 

Regardless  to  preserve  his  own, 
He  sought  the  stranger's  life  alone, 
With  panting  breast  and  flashing  eye, 
And  all  a  madman's  energy  ! 
While  calm  and  firm  his  foe  repaid 
Each  stroke  with  true,  unerring  blade. 

A  few,  but  fearful  moments  pass'd, 
Till  blind  with  headlong  rage  at  last, 
Herman,  with  desperate  fierceness  prest, 
And  aimed  a  quick  blow  at  his  breast ; 
The  youth  beheld — sprung  lightly  round, 
Dash'd  the  raised  weapon  to  the  ground, 
And  while  the  fragments  scatter'd  wide, 
He  sheathed  his  sword  in  Herman's  side ; 
Then  bending  o'er  his  fallen  foe, 
Whisper'd  in  accents  stern  and  low, 
"  Herman  !  thy  miscreant  life  I  spare ! 
But  should  we  meet  again — beware  !" 
Then  gliding  through  the  low-arch'd  door 
His  manly  form  was  seen  no  more ! 

With  straining  eye  and  changeless  mien 
Lenore  had  mark'd  this  fearful  scene, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  345 

Till  her  chill'd  heart  seem'd  palsied  there, 

With  terror  bordering1  on  despair. 

But  when  the  gallant  stranger  came, 

A  something  whisper'd  Erstein's  name, 

And  when  beneath  the  dubious  light 

She  saw  him  conqueror  in  the  fight, 

Her  heart  seem'd  bursting  with  delight. 

Hope,  with  its  trembling  radiance,  stole 

O'er  the  dark  desert  of  her  soul — 

Her  head  droop'd  lightly  on  her  breast, 

As  when  an  infant  sinks  to  rest. 

Her  heart  gave  one  convulsive  thrill, 

Leap'd — flutter'd  wildly — and  was  still ! 

The  courage  grief  could  not  destroy 

Bow'd  to  intensity  of  joy. 

The  priest,  unheeding  all  beside 

Bent  sadly  o'er  the  fainting  bride, 

With  mystic  sign  and  mutter'd  prayer, 

And  all  an  anxious  father's  care ; 

But  as  he  knelt,  absorb'd  the  while, 

A  quick  step  echoed  through  the  aisle — 

A  burst  of  joy  assail'd  his  ear ; 

He  turn'd — the  stranger  youth  was  near ! 

A  moment  more — his  stalwart  arm 
Had  raised  the  maiden's  drooping  form, 
And  turning  swift  his  eagle  eye 
Roam'd  o'er  the  walls  inquiringly. 
The  priest  observed  his  doubtful  air, 
And  clearly  read  his  meaning  there : 
Trembling  he  raised  the  massive  pall, 
Which  hung  beside  the  crumbling  wall, 
And  oped  a  secret  door  that  led 
Within  a  thicket's  tangled  shade. 

The  youth  bow'd  low  his  plumed  head, 
And  'neath  the  ruin'd  portal  fled ! 
The  priest  conceal'd  it  as  before, 
And  turning,  past  the  draperies  o'er, 
23 


346  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

But  breathed  a  low  and  smother'd  cry, 
As,  fix'd  upon  that  secret  door, 
His  own  met  Herman's  baleful  eye. 

It  burn'd  with  hatred's  living  flame, 

And  rage  convulsed  his  giant  frame, 

A  curse  hung  quivering  on  his  tongue ; 

Each  nerve  to  dark  revenge  was  strung; 

And  the  full  arteries  of  his  brow, 

Were  swelled  like  livid  serpents  now. 

The  boiling  blood  with  sudden  start 

Had  gather'd  fiercely  at  his  heart, 

And  left  his  cheeks  and  lips  a  hue 

Of  ghastly  and  unearthly  blue. 

But  quick  the  coward  tide  return'd, 

And  through  his  veins  like  wildfire  burn'd ; 

And  o'er  his  features  crept  the  while, 

Their  sneering  and  revengeful  smile — 

When  in  that  crowded  court  he  fell 

Beneath  that  foe  he  knew  too  well. 

He  sought  to  find  a  safe  retreat 

From  clashing  swords  and  trampling  feet — 

And  while  he  lean'd,  with  whirling  brain, 

The  portal's  sculptured  arch  beside, 
Saw  with  a  rage  surmounting  pain, 

The  flight  of  Erstein  and  his  bride. 

And  where  hath  he  fled  with  his  lovely  one,  say  1 
And  where  are  they  wending  their  perilous  way  1 
The  lover  hath  mounted  his  faithful  steed, 
He  is  bounding  away  with  the  lightning  speed  ! 
One  arm  is  supporting  the  rescued  bride, 
One  hand  is  at  freedom  his  bridle  to  guide, 
And  his  spurs  are  dash'd  in  the  charger's  side. 

Beneath  them  the  turf,  and  above  them  the  sky, 
Away  and  away  on  their  pathway  they  fly ! 
The  sound  of  the  tumult  grew  fainter  and  low, 
And  faded  in  distance  the  torches'  red  glow,. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  347 

And  in  silence  unbroken  the  fugitives  sped, 
Save  when  the  low  thunder  was  growling  o'erhead, 
Or  the  tempest  was  wailing,  now  shrill  and  now  deep, 
As  it  crept  in  the  arms  of  the  morning  to  sleep. 

While  the  black  clouds  were  rolling  in  masses  away, 

O'er  the  hills  of  the  east  rose  a  faint  streak  of  gray ; 

And  as  onward  they  flew,  on  the  dim  air  was  borne 

The  soft  cooling  breath  of  a  bright  summer's  morn ! 

Their  speed  as  they  bounded  the  forest  path  o'er 

RecalFd  the  faint  throb  to  the  heart  of  Lenore, 

But  her  senses  bewilder'd  long  laboured  in  vain 

To  dispel  the  wild  fancies  which  throng'd  on  her  brain ; 

And  when  she  awoke  to  the  real  at  last, 

Oh  what  mingled  emotions  were  stirr'd  in  her  breast, 

Till  her  heart  o'erflowing  found  soothing  relief 

In  tears  of  united  thanksgiving  and  grief! 

She  remember'd  the  scene  in  the  old  ruin'd  aisle, 

And  silently  pray'd  for  the  victor  the  while, 

Then  she  thought  of  her  sire,  and  she  shrank  from  his  side, 

And  "  My  father  !  my  father !"  she  bitterly  cried. 

"  Fear  not  for  thy  father !  yon  furious  band 

Sought  nothing  but  haply  his  gold  at  his  hand ! 

It  was  Herman  they  sought,  and  they  long'd  for  the  blood 

Of  that  traitor  alike  to  the  vile  and  the  good !" 

"  And  whither  art  bearing  me,  Erstein,  and  why  1 
And  where  shall  Lenore  for  a  resting-place  fly  ?" 
"  We  are  hasting  away  to  my  rude  mountain  tower ! 
'Tis  a  rugged  retreat  for  so  fragile  a  flower ; 
But  my  sister  shall  cherish  the  blossom  with  care, 
Till  it  blooms  again,  brighter  and  sweeter  than  e'er." 
"  And  how  didst  thou  come  in  that  moment  of  gloom, 
To  snatch  me  away  from  my  terrible  doom  1" 

"  Lenore,  my  beloved !  thou  rememberest  the  hour 
When  I  parted  from  thee  in  thy  myrtle- wreath'd  bower ; 


348  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

That  hour,  which  was  fated  awhile  to  destroy 
Each  hope  of  the  future,  each  vision  of  joy  ; 
I  mounted  my  charger,  I  knew  not  how, 

And  I  rode  like  a  madman,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For  my  brain  was  hot  with  a  fiery  glow, 

And  my  heart  was  chill'd  with  a  cold  despair ; 
I  abandon'd  the  reins  to  my  faithful  steed, 
And  we  bounded  away  with  a  maniac  speed, 
Till  exhausted,  and  worn  with  exertion  we  stood 
On  the  barren  skirts  of  a  lonely  wood ; 
'Twas  deep  immersed  in  a  mountain  dell, 

On  the  rocky  banks  of  a  brawling  stream, 
Which  o'er  a  dark  precipice  rapidly  fell 

With  dashing  and  foaming,  and  murmur  and  gleam. 
I  threw  myself  down  by  a  rock-cover'd  cave, 
And  silently  bent  o'er  the  breast  of  the  wave, 
And  more  calm  in  my  veins  did  the  life  current  flow, 
While  the  spray  dash'd  cool  on  my  feverish  brow. 
Of  Herman  I  thought,  and  my  pulses  beat  higher, 
And  my  bosom  throbb'd  wild  with  a  tempest  of  ire  ! 
But  then  o'er  my  fancy  thy  loved  image  crept, 
And  forgive  me,  Lenore,  if  in  anguish  I  wept ! 
While  musing  thus  sadly,  I  started  to  hear 
The  sound  of  rude  voices  assailing  my  ear. 
I  turn'd, — from  the  cavern  beside  me  they  came, — 
And  the  speaker  named  Herman's  detestable  name  ! 
I  listen'd,  but  dearest,  so  stainless  thou  art 
In  each  word  of  thy  lips,  and  each  thought  of  thy  heart, 
That  could  I  repeat,  I  should  tell  thee  in  vain 
Of  a  language  so  loose,  so  impure,  and  profane  ! 
Then  listen,  Lenore,  as  I  briefly  shall  tell 
The  meaning  I  gain'd  from  their  words  as  they  fell. 
They  were  robbers — a  fearful  and  ruffian  band, 
Most  sordid  of  heart,  and  most  bloody  of  hand, 
And  Herman  hath  been  for  full  many  a  year, 
Their  chief  in  each  deed  of  rebellion  and  fear  ! 
Yes  !  he  whose  presumption  hath  claim'd  thee  as  bride 
To  that  lawless  and  desperate  band  was  allied  ; 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  349 

Meet  comrades  for  one  whose  degenerate  mind 

Is  stain'd  with  each  crime  which  can  blacken  mankind. 

Thus  a  stranger  to  mercy,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

He  had  rush'd  oft,  uncheck'd,  in  his  reckless  career, 

Till,  unheeding  the  pledge  which  at  entrance  he  gave, 

In  secret  he  fled  from  the  robbers'  wild  cave, 

Bearing  with  him  away  their  iniquitous  spoil, 

The  fruits  they  had  reap'd  from  unhallowed  toil ! 

Oh  long  did  they  labour,  but  labour'd  in  vain, 

Some  trace  of  their  villanous  chieftain  to  gain, 

Till  a  comrade  return'd  with  the  tidings  at  last, 

That  the  Baron  of  Arnheim  received  him  as  guest, 

And  this  eve  was  to  join  his  perfidious  hand 

To  the  fairest  flower  of  his  native  land. 

Then  they  vow'd  revenge,  and  they  fearfully  swore 

That  long  ere  the  shadows  of  midnight  were  o'er, 

They  would  give  to  their  leader,  false  Herman,  the  meed 

He  had  won  by  the  coward  and  traitorous  deed  ! 

They  resolved  to  assemble  at  eventide  there, 

And  in  arms  to  the  Castle  of  Arnheim  repair, 

To  recover  the  gold  they  had  lost,  and  assuage, 

In  the  blood  of  their  chieftain,  their  hatred  and  rage. 

Thus  said  they,  Lenore,  and  now  eager  I  heard 

Each  ruffian  voice,  and  each  half-suppress'd  word ; 

For  while  o'er  my  senses  their  dark  import  stole, 

A  light  broke  in  on  my  desperate  soul, 

And  methought  I  discover'd  a  path  to  guide 

My  steps  once  more  to  my  dear  one's  side. 

I  could  join  their  band  at  the  castle  gate ; 

I  could  rescue  thee  from  thy  dreadful  fate, 

And  while  they  were  in  fury  revenging  their  wrong, 

And  searching  for  gold  'neath  each  time-worn  wall, 
I  could  plunge  unseen  'mid  the  motley  throng, 

And  bear  away  that  which  was  dearer  than  all ! 
Oh,  blest  be  our  Lady  !  who  guided  me  well, 

And  supported  thy  soul  on  this  terrible  night ! 
But,  Lenore  !  my  beloved  !  thy  cheek  is  too  pale, 

And  the  tear  steals  adown  it— oh  say,  was  I  right  ?" 


350  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

She  spoke  no  word,  but  he  read  her  reply 

In  the  timid  glance  of  her  downcast  eye, 

And  the  blush  which  sprung  to  her  varying  cheek, 

In  token  of  thoughts  which  she  dared  not  speak  ! 

He  saw  the  glance,  and  he  felt  its  charm, 

And  he  folded  the  mantle  more  close  round  her  form, 

And  silently  spurring  his  charger  again, 

They  bounded  away  over  forest  and  plain. 

And  softly  and  meekly  the  morning  light 

Stole  up  from  the  arms  of  that  storm-toss'd  night, 

And  faintly  trembled  its  dawning  beam 

On  each  sparkling  valley  and  purling  stream, 

And  danced  on  the  leaves  of  the  forest  trees, 

As  they  slowly  waved  in  the  sighing  breeze, 

And  with  dripping  branches  bended  low, 

As  if  weeping  the  fate  of  each  fallen  bough. 

"  Lenore  !"  said  Erstein,  "  Lenore,  behold 

How  each  cloud  from  the  glance  of  the  morning  hath  roll'd  ; 

How  the  storm  of  the  midnight  has  glided  away, 

And  no  traces  are  left  of  its  passage  to-day, 

Save  a  pensive  hue,  which  is  stealing  o'er, 

And  making  all  nature  more  fair  than  before. 

"  The  whispering  gale  that  is  floating  past, 

Is  all  that  remains  of  the  howling  blast, 

And  the  sparkling  waves  of  yon  tiny  river 

Rush  onward  more  swiftly  and  gaily  than  ever ; 

While  the  emerald  turf  on  the  graceful  hill 

Outrivals  in  splendour  the  dew-dripping*  rill, 

And  the  trees  round  its  base  with  their  broad  arms  cling, 

Like  the  diamond  crown  of  a  giant  king. 

'Tis  a  beautiful  type  of  our  fate,  Lenore, 

For  our  storm  of  misfortune  has  glided  o'er, 

And  the  joyous  morning  of  hope  and  love 

Is  dawning  our  radiant  pathway  above  ; 

And  life  shall  flow  on  with  its  dancing  stream, 

With  murmur  and  sparkle,  with  music  and  glearn, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  351 

And  the  glittering  dew-drops  alone  shall  last, 
To  remind  our  souls  of  the  storms  that  have  past." 

A  sunbeam  of  gladness,  a  smile  from  the  soul, 

O'er  the  face  of  Lenore  insensibly  stole  ; 

They  were  slowly  ascending  a  verdant  hill, 

At  whose  base  there  rippled  a  murmuring  rill, 

And  she  gazed  on  the  vale  they  had  left,  till  her  sight 

Seem'd  melting  in  tears  of  exquisite  delight. 

But  she  suddenly  utter'd  a  smother'd  cry, 

As  a  figure  advancing  arrested  her  eye ; 

'Twas  a  horseman,  who  spurr'd  on  his  foaming  steed 

With  a  desperate  madman's  fiery  speed, 

While  far  beyond,  on  the  level  green, 

A  waving  line  was  distinctly  seen. 

Scarce  had  the  shriek  escaped  her  tongue, 
Ere  to  his  feet  young  Erstein  sprung, 
And  led  the  wearied  steed  which  bore 
The  fragile  form  of  poor  Lenore, 
Where  a  dark  thicket  rose  in  pride, 
The  leaping,  brawling  stream  beside. 

"  'Tis  Herman  !  and  the  hour  is  come 
To  seal  or  his  or  Erstein's  doom  ! 
If  victor,  well !  but  if  I  die, 
Thine  only  resource  is  to  fly." 

He  said,  and  press'd  her  hand  the  while, 
With  fervent  grasp  and  cheering  smile ; 
Then  e'er  had  fled  that  earnest  tone, 
The  trembling  maiden  was  alone. 

Meanwhile,  with  fierce  and  maniac  haste, 
The  furious  Herman  forward  press'd, 
Clear'd  the  small  stream  with  sudden  bound, 
And  leap'd  impetuous  to  the  ground. 


352  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

Oh,  'twas  a  dark  and  fearful  sight ! 
His  writhing  face  was  ghastly  white ; 
His  horseman's  cloak  was  deeply  dyed 
With  the  red  life-blood  from  his  side  ; 
His  step  was  hurried  and  untrue ; 
His  scowling  brow  was  bathed  in  dew, 
And  when  he  past  his  fingers  o'er, 
They  left  its  surface  stain'd  with  gore. 

Still  did  his  rigid  features  wear 
Their  darkly  biting,  withering  sneer, 
And  in  his  eye  a  fiendish  glare, 
Revenge  and  hate  had  kindled  there. 
He  waved  his  glancing  sword  on  high, 
And  cried,  "  Defend  thy  life,  or  die  !" 
"  I  fight  not,"  Erstein  answer'd  slow, 
"  A  frantic  or  a  bleeding  foe  !" 

A  demon's  rage  fill'd  Herman's  eye, 
Which  flash'd  around  him  fearfully. 
"  Then  in  thy  coward  folly  die  !" 
Thus  did  he  yell,  and  with  the  word 
Plunged  at  his  breast  his  ponderous  sword. 
The  youth,  who  mark'd  each  look  with  care, 
Turn'd — and  the  weapon  smote  the  air ; 
Then,  ere  a  second  stroke  was  made, 
Swift  as  the  wind  unsheath'd  his  blade : 
And  springing  forth,  with  gesture  light, 
Closed  firmly  in  the  desperate  fight. 

How  did  those  sounds  of  doubt  and  fear 
Ring  on  the  maiden's  listening  ear  ! 
How  did  her  veins  convulsive  swell, 
As,  fast  and  wild,  the  stern  blows  fell ! 
But  passion's  rage  must  yield  at  length 
To  calmer  reason's  vigorous  strength, 
And  Erstein's  steel  again  was  dew'd 
With  the  fierce  Herman's  gushing  blood. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  353 

Breathing  one  quick  and  startling  yell, 
Upon  the  trampled  sward  he  fell, 
And  the  dark  life-stream  gurgling  fast, 
Blent  with  the  dew-drops  on  its  breast, 
And,  as  the  current  swifter  sped, 
Tinged  the  light  sparkling  stream  with  red ! 
His  clench'd  hands  held,  with  rigid  clasp, 
The  turf  and  flowers  within  their  grasp, 
And  the  cold,  clammy,  deathlike  dew 
In  large  drops  gather'd  on  his  brow. 

Then  a  dark  shade  of  fell  despair 

Chased  from  its  glance  its  frenzied  glare, 

And  yielded  to  his  upraised  eye 

A  look  of  helpless  agony ; 

It  roll'd  around  from  place  to  place, 

And  rested  last  on  Erstein's  face ; 

Then  shrunk  from  the  moment's  encounter  again 

With  a  mingled  thrill  of  remorse  and  pain  ; 

Then  he  strove  to  speak,  but  the  accents  hung 

Unform'd  on  his  quivering,  palsied  tongue. 

Erstein  the  wounded  sufferer  gave 
A  cooling  draught  from  the  crystal  wave, 
And  raising  his  form  on  the  rivulet's  brink, 
Oh  long  and  deeply  did  he  drink, 
Then,  as  o'ercome  with  torturing  pain, 
Sank  on  the  crimson'd  turf  again. 

Convulsions  o'er  his  features  past, 

And,  with  a  fearful  strength,  at  last 

He  started — clench'd  his  blood-stain'd  vest, 

And  groan'd,  "  This  mountain  on  my  breast !" 

Erstein  bent  o'er  him — "  Herman !  now 

We  stand  no  longer  foe  to  foe ; 

Tell  me,  if  to  one  earthly  thing 

Thy  parting  spirit  still  doth  cling ; 

One  deed,  which,  ere  thy  race  was  run, 

Thou  wouldst  have  purposed  to  have  done  ; 


351  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

One  word  of  penitence  to  send 
An  injured  or  deluded  friend; 
And  here  I  pledge  my  promise  free, 
That  act  shall  be  perform'd  for  thee ! 
Aught  that  may  cast  a  softening  ray 
Around  thy  spirit's  fearful  way, 
Or  soothe  that  dark  and  drear  abode 
Unbrighten'd  by  the  smiles  of  God  !" 

"  Of  God  !     Who  spoke  of  God  ?— I  own 

No  God  but  reckless  chance  alone ; 
No  hell  more  rife  with  pain  and  fear 
Than  that  which  burns  and  tortures  here; 
Though  I  could  sink  to  black  despair, 
If  I  met  not  his  spirit  there ! 

"  Away,  away  !  each  look,  each  word 
Pierces  my  bosom  like  a  sword  ! 
'Tis  thou  whom  I  have  injured,  thou 
Whose  arm,  in  justice,  laid  me  low ! 

"  Nay,  leave  me  not,  but  come  more  near, 
For  my  breath  fails  me — bend  thine  ear ! 
And  ere  from  life  for  ever  freed, 
My  soul  shall  boast  one  blameless  deed ! 
Child  of  a  rich  and  ancient  line, 
Arnheim,  its  titles,  lands,  are  thine  !" 

"  Thou  ravest !" — "  List !  if  there  be  time, 
Thine  ears  shall  drink  my  tale  of  crime  ! 
I  seem'd  thy  father's  friend,  and  he 
Believed  me  all  fidelity  ; 
He  perish'd  in  a  foreign  land, 
And,  Erstein,  by  this  blood-stain'd  hand  ! 
Ay,  shudder ! — mark  me  well,  and  trace 
The  murderer's  impress  on  my  face ! 
Yes  !  'neath  a  friend's  disguise,  there  stole 
A  venom'd  serpent  to  his  soul ! 
In  youth  he  dared  to  taunt  me — I 
Vow'd  for  the  insult  he  should  die  ! 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  355 

"  It's  very  memory  pass'd  from  him ; 
And  when  in  after  years  I  came, 
Conceal'd  by  friendship's  mask  and  name, 
He  took  me  to  his  bosom,  while 
Revenge  was  lurking  'neath  my  smile. 
He  died ! — start  not,  but  bend  thine  ear, 
For  I  must  speak,  and  thou  shall  hear ! 
Ay,  though  it  rends  my  blacken'd  heart, 
And  tears  each  gaping  wound  apart ! 

"  He  died ! — I  sought,  with  keenest  hate, 

The  proofs  of  this,  thy  fair  estate ; 

I  kept  the  parchments,  that  I  still 

Might  guide  thy  fortunes  at  my  will. 

I  hated — for  thy  features  bore 

The  smile,  the  glance  thy  father's  wore. 

"  Avert  that  look  !  the  memory  brings 
A  thousand,  thousand  scorpion  stings ! 
Ay,  ay  !  'tis  right,  'tis  meet  thy  steel 
This  last  and  deadliest  blow  should  deal ! 
'Tis  right  thy  grateful  hand  should  send 
The  death-blow  to  thy  father's  friend! 

"  But  I  must  on  ! — I  left  that  shore — 

I  sought  my  native  land  once  more : 

I  join'd  the  robber's  desperate  band ; 

I  found  the  baron  on  thy  land  ; 

'Twas  then  I  saw,  I  loved  Lenore  ! — 

Oh  heavens  !  and  must  I  tell  thee  more  ] — 

I  play'd  the  baron  false,  and  he, 

The  fool !  the  idiot !  trusted  me  ! 

"  Here,  on  my  cold  and  labouring  breast — 

Raise  me— here,  here  the  parchments  rest! 

But  my  chill'd  limbs  grow  stiff— the  sand 

Of  life  is  running  fast — the  hand 

Of  death  is  plunging  deep  his  icy  dart — 

His  grasp  is  cold — cold — cold  upon  my  heart !" 


356  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

The  youth,  with  fix'd  and  wondering  eyes, 
Bent  o'er  his  form  in  mute  surprise ; 
When  loud,  derisive  laughter  near, 
Burst  in  discordance  on  his  ear. 
He  rose,  and  saw  before  him  stand 
The  dying  Herman's  ruffian  band. 

Returning  from  their  midnight  broil, 
And  laden  with  its  varied  spoil, 
To  their  wild  cave  they  led  in  haste 
The  aged  baron  and  the  priest. 
But  when  in  distance  they  beheld 
Their  leader's  flight,  so  fierce  and  wild, 
They  turn'd,  pursued,  and  came  to  see 
His  last,  expiring  agony ; 
And  now,  with  laugh  of  scornful  hate, 
Like  fiends  they  triumph'd  in  his  fate. 

Those  tones  with  direst  vengeance  rife, 

Recall'd  their  comrade's  flickering  life  ! 

With  them  unnumber'd  memories  came — 

Again  he  raised  his  bleeding  frame, 

Gazed  wildly  on  the  furious  band, 

And  shook  his  clench'd  and  stiffening  hand. 

His  cheek  burn'd  with  a  livid  glow, 

A  black  scowl  gather'd  on  his  brow, 

A  fierce  revenge  his  visage  fired — 

He  groan'd,  fell  backward,  and  expired. 

Silence  her  breathless  mantle  threw 
A  moment  o'er  that  lawless  crew, 
And  awe  one  instant  gain'd  the  place 
Of  triumph  on  each  swarthy  face, 
But  as  the  sun-ray  glances  past 
The  rugged  cliff's  unbending  crest, 
So  did  that  faint  beam  disappear, 
Lost  in  a  dark,  demoniac  sneer. 
The  baron  and  the  priest  alone, 
With  trembling  heard  that  dying  groan, 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  357 

And  mark'd  with  awe-struck  pitying  gaze, 
His  stiften'd  form  and  ghastly  face. 

Erstein  first  broke  the  silence  dread, 
And  to  the  outlaw'd  chieftain  said : 
"  Thou  seekest  spoil !  dost  thou  behold 
This  jewell'd  cross,  this  purse  of  gold! 
These  will  I  gladly  give  to  gain 
Two  aged  captives  of  thy  train. 
High  ransom  take,  and  yield  to  me 
The  priest's  and  baron's  liberty." 

"  Yori  priest  I  had  design'd  to  save 

The  contrite  sinners  in  our  cave. 

Yon  miser  lord,  to  gather  in 

The  gold  our  midnight  frays  shall  win ! 

This  had  I  purposed,  but  in  truth 

Thy  sword  hath  served  us  well,  brave  youth ! 

By  sending  to  the  fiend  who  gave, 

The  spirit  of  that  scowling  knave. 

Bestow  on  us  that  glittering  store, 

And  swear  to  seek  our  spoil  no  more, 

Then  we  will  freely  yield  to  thee 

The  aged  captives'  liberty." 

The  pledge  was  given — the  band  released 
The  aged  baron  and  the  priest, 
And  sweeping  round  a  thicket  nigh 
Their  dark  forms  vanish'd  to  the  eye. 
With  heaving  breast  and  clouded  brow 
The  baron  wander'd  to  and  fro, 
And  wrung  his  hands  with  gestures  wild, 
And  wept  and  cried,  "  My  child  !  my  child !" 

Swiftly  the  youthful  Erstein  fled 
To  the  dark  wood's  embowering  shade, 
And  soon  as  swift  return'd  to  lead 
The  fair  Lenora's  wearied  steed. 


358  MISS  MARGARET  DAVIDSON. 

With  joyful  cry  and  agile  bound, 
The  maiden  sprang  upon  the  ground, 
And  clasp'd  her  father's  neck  around. 

And  o'er  and  o'er  again  he  prest 

The  rescued  maiden  to  his  breast, 

And  gazed  upon  her  features  bright 

With  frantic  transports  of  delight. 

"  My  child  !  my  love  !  my  own  Lenore  ! 

Come  to  thy  father's  heart  once  more, 

Nor  fear  that  thou  again  shalt  be 

A  living  sacrifice  for  me  ! 

But  who  preserved  thee  1  where  didst  thou 

Find  refuge  on  that  night,  and  how  7" 

Her  cheek  with  crimson  blushes  warm, 
She  turn'd  her  eye  on  Erstein's  form. 
"  And  by  what  title  shall  I  bless  1 
"  Erstein  !"  he  groan'd,  "  alas !  alas  ! 
It  is  the  very  name,  'tis  he 
Whom  I  have  heap'd  with  injury  ! 
A  voice,  too  long  a  slighted  guest, 
Once  more  is  whispering  in  my  breast ! 
And  I  will  listen — will  obey ; 
How  shall  I  all  these  wrongs  repay  1" 

The  youth's  dark  eye  beamed  purest  fire, 

And  his  quick  pulses  bounded  higher. 

"  Oh  let  me,  let  me  call  thee  sire !" 

The  baron  bent  his  wondering  gaze, 

Upon  the  speaker's  beaming  face ; 

The  youth  was  at  his  feet — his  brow 

Was  burning  with  a  crimson  glow, 

His  lips  were  parted,  and  his  cheek 

Flush'd  with  the  thoughts  he  could  not  speak, 

And  his  dark  eye  was  raised  above, 

With  mingled  glance  of  hope  and  love. 


POETICAL  REMAINS.  359 

He  turn'd  to  Lenore,  and  her  downcast  eye, 
Her  trembling  frame,  her  heaving  sigh, 
Her  cheek,  now  flush'd,  now  deadly  pale, 
In  silence  told  the  maiden's  tale ! 

"  My  children,  be  happy  !  henceforth  to  your  sire 
Shall  your  peace  be  his  highest,  his  noblest  desire ; 
He  shall  see  you  enjoy,  with  a  rapture  tenfold, 
Those  affections  he  well  nigh  had  barter'd  for  gold ! 
And  sorrow's  dark  pinion  shall  shadow  no  more 
The  loves  of  brave  Erstein  and  fair  Leonore." 

1838. 


THE  END. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


,E 


OCTkgO  1935 


MAR 


LD  21-100?n-7,'33 


F 


886220 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


* 


-   ^ 


